


The Apocalypse That Never Was

by nan00k



Series: Small World [4]
Category: Doctor Who, Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Merlin (TV), Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Demon!Sherlock, Gen, Superwho, Superwholock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 16:48:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nan00k/pseuds/nan00k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London had its own sort of apocalypse before… one that included an angel, a demon, an anti-Christ, an ex-hunter, a child detective and, oh, yes, a Doctor.</p><p>[Superwholock/Good Omens and Merlin. Part of the Small World AU series.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Apocalypse That Never Was

**Author's Note:**

> Don't be surprised by the length of this one; this is basically a re-telling of how Good Omens would have gone down with the assistance of the crossover cast, focusing mainly on that crossover cast, since well, we've already read Good Omens, haven't we? As a reminder, we are still working with demon!Sherlock here. Refer to "Building Down" if you forget the details.
> 
> For those who are unfamiliar with Good Omens, I apologize for the abrupt style change in how this story will be presented compared to other installments of this story. The footnotes are tradition.
> 
>  **Warnings** : MASSIVE crossover, mixing of canons, alternative universe setting, dark themes  
>  **Disclaimers** : Supernatural © Kripke/CW. Good Omens © Pratchet and Gaiman. Doctor Who © BBC. Sherlock © Moffat/Gatiss. Merlin © BBC One, et al.

**London, England**  
1990  
Thursday

The world would End on a Saturday. That much was very certain. It had been written throughout the ages that it would come down to this moment, that day.

It was, as Sherlock would learn, ineffable.

The End rested upon the shoulders of an eleven-year-old boy (1). Sherlock himself was eleven-years-old, but ultimately, it was none of his business. He was not the Anti-Christ. He wasn't, well, human (2) and Mummy didn't know either way; neither did the Anti-Christ's foster-mother about her son. But that was irrelevant.

Sherlock was not fond of irrelevant things, so he focused on the facts: that the world was ending, it was all according to prophecy, and he could do nothing about it.

So, he remained inside that afternoon before the start of the End. He still looked outside his bedroom window between practicing violin and studying. Mummy just thought him to be studious.

His brother, Mycroft, was at his fancy new job in the government. Father was at work. The house felt colder and strangely uncomfortable as the minutes ticked by.

Outside the window, Sherlock could feel the wind picking up. None of the humans had noticed, but those who were not human, well, they were all running as far as they could get…

Or they were watching. Waiting.

"Sherlock," Mummy asked from the door, "what are you looking at?"

He considered answering. He wondered what she expected him to say.

"Nothing, mummy," he said, dutifully picking up his bow and violin again.

It wouldn't be much left outside soon enough, anyway.

Sherlock played a melancholy staff, letting the vibrato echo into his bones.

xxx  
(1) His true alias was Zephyr, the West Wind, so he really was not eleven-years-old.  
(2) Told you.

**0000**

**Surrey, England  
Friday**

The Doctor took one deep breath, held it, and then released it. It was refreshing.

They had had some turbulence going down. Something had snagged the TARDIS while they were slipping through space-time and the Doctor haphazardly decided that maybe they should land. The turbulence felt like ordinary galactic static, but the pulse that had rocked the TARDIS felt… different. He wanted to investigate and his companion had cheerfully agreed, having never visited Surrey before. It wasn't that big of a time jump for her, since she was born in 1986 and this was only 1990 or so.

Besides the odd electro-magnetic interference, the Doctor felt a more personal need to get off the ship and stretch his legs. It had gotten vaguely uncomfortable in the last day or so of traveling, though he knew it was just him that felt that.

He had a new companion, who had rightfully demanded the full title after a few adventures they had had together already (1). The Doctor wasn't exactly tickled by the notion of calling it long term, but there was no reason not to. There really wasn't.

 _Really. There isn't_ , he told himself firmly. He liked Martha. She had agreed to come back to fill the emptiness of the TARDIS and she did so with bravery, even after going back to her regular life for a few days prior. She was bold and bright and… different. No harm in different.

Well, mostly. The Doctor saw no harm in people being different, because if anything, humans were unique and special each their own. But sometimes, he did have to concede different wasn't too good.

Especially when _Earth_ was the thing that was different when it wasn't supposed to be.

"What's wrong?" Martha Jones asked, peering over his shoulder.

They were on a street corner in Surrey, just near a bar and a pharmacy, and one of those shops that would eventually be selling _Harry Potter_ merchandise in the next ten years (2). The Doctor had cheerfully agreed to head to the bar with Martha to get a bite to eat before exploring a bit, but he had stopped at a newsstand outside the pharmacy when his eyes caught sight of the local newspaper.

The Doctor's eyes squinted. "Do you see this?" he asked, reaching down to pick up one of the newspapers, where a startling sight appeared on the front page.

" _Atlantis_ … _found_?" Martha read, shocked. "What on Earth?"

"That's not supposed to happen," the Doctor said, shaking his head slowly. "It's not even the right Atlantis!" That wasn't even the right monument!

Martha glanced at him. "You've been there?"

"To all three of them. Look at this mess!" the Doctor exclaimed. He flipped through the paper hurriedly. "Nuclear plant uranium deposits, vanished! Something's up. Something's wrong."

He knew something felt off, but he had no idea what it was. The people seemed to be agitated over the different events detailed in the papers, but there didn't seem to be outright panic yet. The Doctor considered the situation: just post-Cold War, so they probably didn't want to blame the Russians outright. But this was definitely not the Russians. Definitely not.

"What year is it again?" Martha asked, reaching for her own paper when the Doctor hadn't given her the first one.

The Doctor looked at the written date. "1990." It was a Friday.

"I'm not even in school yet," Martha whispered, mostly to herself. She looked up at him and frowned. "You're right. This shouldn't be happening."

Both flinched at the sound of a car horn going off. The Doctor looked past several pedestrians who had also stopped on the sidewalk. A car had swerved to the side to avoid what looked like a worker coming up from a hole in the middle of the road.

It was not a service worker, however; it was a Tibetan monk.

The Doctor tilted his head, caught between fascination and outrage.

"Is that a…monk?" Martha asked, startled.

The Doctor didn't reply. He watched as a constable rushed over to speak with the poor, confused Tibetan blocking traffic. The Doctor heard him speak in a frantic Khams dialect and realized the poor bloke had no idea where he was or why he had been digging in a tunnel.

…all the way from Tibet.

That was alarming and decidedly not normal for Surrey in 1990.

The Doctor put the newspaper back and walked down the sidewalk, away from the crowd. Martha followed him with a wary expression.

"This whole place feels wrong," the Doctor said quietly, looking around the tiny little village. The air was tingly. " _All_ wrong."

"What should we do?" Martha asked, also in a quiet voice.

The Doctor considered their options. They didn't know what was happening, but maybe someone else did, someone who lived there.

"England, 1990," the Doctor murmured. He nodded and felt confident he knew what to do next. "I may know someone in the area."

"Really?" Martha asked, surprised. "I thought…well, since, you know, the time travel…"

The Doctor grinned over his shoulder at her as they walked past the bar. "There are a few people walking this planet that live about as long as I do, or longer," he said. "Here's to hoping the Wind hasn't moved in the last thirty years. If anyone can explain this, he can—"

A faint ding alerted them to the doors of the bar opening. The Doctor stopped instinctively; it wasn't just to avoid walking into the leaving patrons. The instinctual halt came from a much deeper sense of self-preservation that he hadn't realized he possessed. He stood on the sidewalk and watched as four people exited the bar. Judging by their leather jackets that read HELL'S ANGELS on the back and the helmets either on their head or in their arms, they were bikers.

The Doctor squinted at them and felt a shiver go through him.

The first two were both men, though the skinny dark-haired man was decidedly neater and taller than the other. That second man was younger, wearing clothes that must have been white once to match his chalky complexion, but were now dusty and covered in grime. He looked quite at home in that mess, too.

The third was a beautiful redheaded woman. She was radiant. Seriously, the Doctor could feel her pulse through the air. All of them were pulsing, frankly, but nothing the average human could sense. The more radiation he absorbed, the more the Doctor realized that they weren't human.

The biggest indicator that they weren't human, however, came in the fourth biker, who still had his helmet on. The Doctor didn't have a clue as to what the four creatures were, but he knew, deep in his bones, that the fourth one was, well, really not alright.

Regardless, he needed answers.

"Hey," he said, before he could think better of it. He moved forward quickly and waved his hand at the departing strangers, who were definitely not human. "Hey, excuse me. You there."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Martha asked, whispering furiously. She probably had sensed something was off about them too, just by instinct. The four were sort of an odd sight for this section of England.

"Not at all, but let's find out for sure," the Doctor whispered back. He grinned at the row of bikers who had stopped at his outburst. "Hi!"

He watched warily as the four bikers turned and looked at him. The eyes of the redhead and skinny man landed on him with pinpoint accuracy. A flash of something crossed their expressions and the redhead smiled.

"You're not from around here," the Doctor offered.

YOU ARE NOT EITHER, the one in the helmet said.

The Doctor blinked.

"Right," he said, recovering smoothly. "I was just wondering where're you off to in such a hurry?"

"To meet a friend," the young dirty man said, smiling in a way that wasn't quite right. The dark haired man and redheaded woman next to him smiled in much more deviant ways.

The Doctor nodded. "That's nice," he offered and then immediately walked past them, forcing Martha along with him.

Yeah, he wasn't touching this one. Not without more information to back him up.

Before Martha could ask what had happened, they were nearly stepped on by a wave of more bikers coming out of the bar. Martha and the Doctor moved to the side to let them past, but the Doctor was interested in the fact that these bikers were human.

An interesting twist, he decided. He poked the nearest one in the shoulder and the man turned to frown down at him.

"Hey, do you know them?" he asked, hoping he was smiling winningly as he pointed over at the four non-human bikers, who were taking their time getting onto their bikes.

The big bloke frowned. "They're the Hell's Angels," he said.

"So we saw," Martha said, clearing her throat.

"No," the biker said, now grinning as if it were a good thing. "For real. They're the real deal."

"Hell's Angels," the Doctor said. He nodded slowly. "That's…quaint."

"Quaint?" Martha repeated, arching an eyebrow at him. He arched one back at her.

"I'm Really Cool People," the biker in front of them said, ignoring their commentary. He seemed quite proud of that fact. He pointed at his three human companions. "That's Grievous Bodily Harm, Cruelty to Animals, and Things Not Working Properly Even After, uh—"

"I'm Things Not Working Properly Even After You've Thumped Them, idiot," the other biker snapped irritably.

Martha scrunched up her face. " _What_?"

"Well, we had to pick those names when they already got the good ones," Grievous Bodily Harm said, shrugging. He pointed at the red headed woman who had finally gotten onto her bike and revved the engine. "I really wanted War, but she's already gotten that one."

Right. War. The Doctor coughed.

"We're tagging along with them. Real Hell's Angels!" Cruelty to Animals said, sounding excited. "They're pretty cool."

The Doctor glanced up at him, carefully watching out of the corner of his eye as the four real Hell's Angels took off down the road. "Would you happen to know where they're headed?" he asked.

The bikers had scrambled to get on their own bikes, but Really Cool People at least looked over at the Doctor with a happy smile.

"Tadfield, they said," he said, fumbling with his helmet. Grievous Bodily Harm took off into the road behind him. "We're just following. It's going to be great."

"Yeah, well, have fun, I suppose," the Doctor said, waving stiffly as the four humans took off after the first bikers. It made an odd parade. He belatedly wondered if he should have warned the humans, but then again they seemed to be well aware of who their company was.

How…odd. Especially when the Doctor realized the first four—the non-humans, who the Doctor had a vague sense of what they were now—had revealed they knew he wasn't human either. They had seen him ask the human bikers questions. Interesting.

" _Hell's_ Angels?" Martha repeated, sounding stunned.

"Yeah," he said.

They had left the Doctor alone not because they didn't realize he wasn't human, he realized. They had walked off, letting him obtain information from the human bikers, because they didn't think him a threat.

The Doctor grinned.

Beside him, Martha frowned. "You're not thinking…?"

"Oh, I'm thinking," the Doctor began, feeling quite mad and refreshed, "that we really need to go find the Wind."

xxx  
(1) Referring to _Doctor Who_ , Series 3, "The Lazarus Experiment."  
(2) The seventh one made him cry.

**0000**

**Bradwell Nuclear Power Station  
Saturday Morning**

If England was having a bad day, Mycroft Holmes was having a particularly awful one.

"You are telling me that five tons of uranium can simply…" Mycroft said, smiling. " _Walk_ away?"

The plant manager did not cow as much as grimace under the barely veiled criticism. "I'm tellin' you, sir," he said, "we don't _know_."

It had happened all over England, though mostly in the west—nuclear power plants were reporting their uranium stores gone. As in, completely and utterly gone. There were no signs of break-ins, which was a ridiculous notion to Mycroft anyway. To transport the uranium, the thieves would have to take time to properly store the material, unless they did not bother to properly store it.

That could mean one of two things: they had an incredibly skilled terrorist organization who were transporting radioactive material without any protective measures, thus endangering the populace at large.

…or it was something else. Some _other_ explanation that did not sit well with anyone in charge.

Mycroft was not one to shy away from _other_ explanations (1). He had to, considering his brother was what he was, occasionally doubt that a situation was not just a simple human problem. It could be something else, something… not so rational as merely a terrorist strike.

He kept those thoughts to himself, regardless. He investigated the third power plant and received no conclusive answers, as expected. He had to phone back to MI6 to give them something conclusive, even though he really didn't have anything at all. Commandeering the manager's office, he made a call.

He briefly—just briefly—considered calling home to speak with Sherlock. But then he thought better of it. He dialed his supervisor's office instead.

"The whole situation is bizarre, sir," he said, tucking his free hand around his back as a grounding gesture. "We are doing everything we can to investigate."

" _I trust that you will_ ," his supervisor said, sounding not quite bored, but close to it. " _We've heard good things about your ability to get things done, Mr. Holmes_."

"Thank you, sir, but with all due respect," Mycroft began, frowning because his superior could not see him. "I must ask why you brought _me_ onto this case. My previous case—the Sable investigation—was nearly completed."

" _Corporate investigations surely amount less whilst compared to the potentiality of terroristic acts, would you not agree, Mr. Holmes?_ "

"Of course, sir," Mycroft said, smiling thinly at the wall. "I was just curious as to why it was I who was selected. I am but a junior agent."

" _We're desperate, Mr. Holmes_ ," the dull voice interrupted. "That's _why_."

There wasn't much to argue with at that, though Mycroft wasn't sure if he felt proud at the vague compliment or nervous at the fact his superiors actually did see him as that useful.

"Ah. Well, thank you for the opportunity, sir," he said, gazing round the office with a blank expression.

" _I expect another status report in a timely fashion. Good luck, Mr. Holmes_."

Mycroft barely had the chance to confirm that when his supervisor hung up. Frowning, Mycroft placed the phone back on its cradle.

"…bollocks," he told the empty room.

xxx  
(1) "Other" events include but are not limited to finding out that one's brother is a demonic spirit inhabiting the body of your real deceased brother. Family dinners have been tense ever since. ( _"Building Down"_ )

**0000**

**Downtown London**

Gregory Lestrade was ecstatic.

He wasn't the kind of bloke who went around jumping and hollering when good luck landed at his door. He was twenty-two; he shouldn't have been doing that sort of thing, anyway. Lestrade—he hated Gregory and its diminutive forms, he honestly did—was naturally inclined to resist showing off his emotions, positive or negative, especially in a public place.

That tendency toward reservation didn't quite stop him from grinning like a loon by himself on the ride back to his apartment. It'd wear off eventually, but he couldn't stop feeling like he had just won the lottery.

The idea to join the Scotland Yard had been a joke, told to him by his bitter father, about Lestrade's refusal to pick up another gun to hunt down whatever it was on their list that week.

"If you don't want to hunt down monsters," Rupert Lestrade had told him when his only son left home a year ago, "why not trade it in for bureaucracy and a badge?"

That's exactly what Lestrade did, much to his father's ire when he eventually heard about it from Lestrade's cousin, who did call in Rupert's place to check in on his son. Having passed the two-day joining process, Lestrade had just had his meeting with his division head and would start work as a constable in the Met by the start of the next week. He had been given a temporary identification badge and it sat in his pocket, practically vibrating. He kept patting it absently.

He wanted to be a detective eventually. Solving crimes, solving real mysteries, not hunting down mythological animals in the wilderness. He'd be helping _real_ people. It was better than being a damn hunter. This was what the world was, not the warped version his father had tried to poison Lestrade's mind with growing up.

People mattered and there was more need for Lestrade to protect them in the city from other people than there was a need for him to be hunting monsters in sewers. It was that simple.

Lestrade wasn't a bitter person by nature, of course, but the childish side of him decided that best part was that this was not the path his father had chosen. It was his own path Lestrade had chosen for himself. His own. It felt _right_.

Humming, Lestrade got back to his apartment just as the storm settled in. It was a rather violent storm, judging by the skies, especially toward Tadfield. He was optimistic about tomorrow though. The weather would be good then, for sure.

The moment he stepped into his flat, he heard the phone ring in the kitchen. He tripped over the rug in the hall and stumbled over to the wall. Lestrade grabbed the phone and bit out an angry _Hello?_ as he massaged his stubbed toe.

" _Great-Uncle Shadwell's got wind of a witch_ ," George Campbell said without preamble.

"Oh, you have to be joking," Lestrade whispered, closing his eyes as he instantly deflated.

George laughed. " _You know he's crazy. It's probably a bag lady. Again_."

"I know!" Lestrade rubbed his face, all of his previous exuberance dissipating instantly as he sagged against the wall. "Jesus Christ, he's going to wind up _killing_ someone."

" _If only he actually found monsters_ ," George said, wistful.

"Why are you telling me this?"

" _I was kind of hoping you'd be around to intervene in case the loon does wind up attacking a civilian. He put a call out for 'back-up' about twenty minutes ago. Apparently has someone working for him, too; a private in his army_ ," George replied, sounding breezy. Lestrade closed his eyes tightly, fighting off a headache.

"Why don't you investigate it?" he asked.

" _Because I'm in Colchester right now and you're the closest on the vine_ ," George replied, dryly. " _I know Uncle Rupert said you wanted off the list, but I could use some help, cousin._ "

"Why the hell is Shadwell still allowed to hunt, anyway?" Lestrade asked, feeling angry with their family for no real reason, or at least no immediate reason. Giving a senile man free range with shotguns and knives did not sit well with him, at all.

" _Because, Greg, we don't get to leave this life_ ," George said. He didn't sound sympathetic. " _No matter how much we think we can_."

Lestrade grimaced and stared at the opposing wall across from him. That was a direct jab at him. Rupert Lestrade's son. The one who left.

His cousin was partly right; Lestrade smiled bitterly. No one could really leave the family business. Not without strings dangling behind them like bad memories.

"I'll go and find him," he finally said. He may as well, before all of Shadwell's nonsense got picked up by the authorities and perhaps got linked back to Lestrade by association.

" _Thanks, Greg. Hey, maybe if you're lucky, it isn't a false positive! Maybe there'll actually be something this time._ "

Lestrade sighed. "A real witch?"

" _Maybe something worse_." George laughed. " _Here's to hoping the past two year's vacation hasn't made you dull._ "

"Oh no," Lestrade murmured, "I'm still sharp."

He bid his cousin good-bye and hung up. He stared at the kitchen wall, glaring at it as if it was the source of his problems.

Only a few more hours. Then he could put his father's business behind him and just… find something better. A decent life. A proper one, as a good man.

He took his handgun, anyway. Just in case it wasn't a false positive.

Just in case.

**0000**

**The Holmes Estate**

He had expected to spend the last day on Earth in his room reading. He had thought about going downstairs to sit with Mummy, but she was still irritated with him for spilling talcum powder all over the bathroom floor. It was not _his_ fault that he needed it for his experiments and that his feeble child-like body would not always cooperate with his intended motions. Sherlock prided himself for having reigned in his supernatural reflexes in the last few years, to better assimilate, but it got him into trouble often.

So, he had ended up sitting alone that morning. He watched from his window seat as the wind picked up outside. He had a feeling it would start to thunder and rain, too. It was starting, the End. He wondered how close they were to the epicenter. It felt odd that it was in England, of all places, but Crowley had only spoken infrequently to him about what was happening.

Crowley had told him two years ago (before that insufferable Mycroft chased the Snake away from the garden entrance for "loitering") that everything was under control. He and that angel—Aziraphale, the fat one—were manipulating the Anti-Christ child into being neutral. Crowley had sworn it was working, and because Crowley seemed to be at least partially competent, Sherlock had believed him.

Gripping the pages on his book—one of the books he had to hide from Mummy, since she disapproved of him reading about quantum physics before he was fourteen—Sherlock glared out the window. It had obviously gone bad, whatever plan the demon and angel had cooked up. Sherlock had half the mind to call Crowley up, but if his deception had been discovered, Crowley was a dead man, figuratively speaking. He'd mostly be _wishing_ he could be a dead man, after Hell got started on him. Sherlock wanted no connection between them if it did end that way—

A flash caught Sherlock's eye. He leaned to the side to peer down the side yard. The house was placed on a hill and he could see down into the village. Most humans couldn't see far, but the glint of blue made Sherlock sharpen his gaze to that which exceeded the normal scales an eleven-year-old possessed.

He dropped his book when he saw what looked like a blue telephone booth sitting on the corner of the street.

For the first time in many months, Sherlock was honestly impressed (1).

He scrambled to grab his coat, scarf and flew down the stairs. Mummy was in the living room and cast him a cool glare when he stumbled into view. Sherlock braced himself and tried to appear more presentable. He hoped she hadn't noticed the budding bad weather; on Fridays, she was typically very withdrawn from the world. She probably hadn't heard about the odd things going on outside their mansion at all.

"I'm going out, mummy," he said.

Mummy turned her gaze back to her newspaper. "Out where?" she asked. Apparently, she hadn't looked out the window. Good.

"I have to stop the imminent demise of the world at large," Sherlock told her. "I may not be home for dinner."

Honesty worked best for the absurd situations he occasionally found himself in while living as Sherlock Holmes ( _"Mummy, I'm going to meet the Serpent from the Garden of Eden"_ or _"Mummy, I've got to go ward the house from angels getting in."_ ). His mother assumed he was being a child in those cases. It was quite convenient.

"You most certainly will be home for dinner," she said sharply, not looking up. She didn't have to, with that tone of voice. "Your father will be displeased if you aren't here."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "I'll try not to disappoint you both, then."

He pulled on his coat and went to go to the front hall, but he stopped. Something kept him at the entrance to the living room. Slowly, he turned his head.

"Mummy?"

"Yes?" she answered.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Goodbye," he said, a pathetic offering in the face of what was to come, if it did come to pass.

His mother did not look up at him. "Goodbye, dear," she said.

It was as much as he could expect. He whirled into the hall and was out the door in a few seconds. The wind was picking up again, but it looked uglier over to the northwest, toward Oxfordshire.

Sherlock jogged down the drive and onto the sidewalk, hoping he would not miss the alien. That phone booth was unmistakable. It could not be coincidence that the creature was here. It was possible—maybe, Sherlock hoped—that the reason the alien was here was to help stop the End.

Stranger things could happen, Sherlock reasoned, like a demon parading around in a child's skin, or a demon and an angel trying to avert the apocalypse together. Sherlock held onto hope.

By the time he reached the phone booth, no one was near it. Cursing, Sherlock looked around at the thin crowds. He didn't see anyone he knew. Had the time traveler changed shape again? He didn't have time to search—

He stopped dead on the sidewalk when someone walked up behind him. He turned and looked up at a familiar face he had not expected to see. Now, he was almost happy to see it.

"Hello, Doctor," he said, smiling.

The man blinked. And then grinned. "'Ello, Zephyr," the Doctor said. "Long time, no see?"

xxx  
(1) A rare and important event, indeed.

**0000**

Meeting old friends was a great thing for the Doctor. He rarely had the opportunity to meet multiple times the various faces he met only once in the cosmos. This was a third time for this particularly creature and Zephyr did not waste any time.

"When you said that you always find a way," the tiny demon said, "I do hope you were sincere."

He sounded just as serious as the Doctor remembered him sounding, only this time, he was definitely a little kid.

"You've shrunk!" the Doctor said, laughing. "Ha, good to see you, my friend."

"Spare the pleasantries," Zephyr said, his cold eyes glaring. "We have more serious things to handle."

The Doctor glanced around. No Tibetans so far. "Indeed."

"You've noticed?" Zephyr asked, impatient.

"Yeah, you could say I have," the Doctor said, sobering up. He nodded. "Ran into a few odd folks back in Surrey. Then saw some Tibetans pop up out of the ground and I was a bit confused about the Atlantis thing."

Zephyr's eyes darkened. Not in a demonic manner, but in an emotional way. "I fear it's already begun, though not the way I had always imagined," he said.

He froze when Martha finally walked up. She peered down at Zephyr curiously.

"Who's the little boy?" she asked. Zephyr's expression darkened even more.

The Doctor grinned. "Oh, Martha, this is Zephyr, an old friend. Very old," he said. He gestured between both of his friends. "Zeph, this is Martha Jones, my traveling companion."

"What happened to the blonde?" Zephyr asked. He briskly dismissed that conversation before the Doctor could feel the sting. "Never mind, I don't care. We need to move quickly, Doctor."

"To do what?" Martha asked, frowning. The Doctor withheld a wince and hoped she missed the "blonde" comment (1).

"The Devil's child, the Anti-Christ! Whatever you want to call him," Zephyr said, impatient. He glared up at the darkening sky. "He's going to end the world."

The Doctor had suspected as much, but he still felt a little dejected by the confirmation. "Oh. That's… not good," he offered.

"I need your help," Zephyr said, turning around. He surprised the Doctor with his slightly desperate manner.

"What can I do?" the Doctor asked. He wasn't going to refuse, of course, but he didn't know what he could do to help, honestly. He wasn't a demon or an angel; this was a bit beyond his expertise level, much to his disappointment.

Zephyr threw his arms up. "I don't know. Something! You can time travel! You can go back and—and I don't know, stop him from being born!"

Stop the Anti-Christ from being born? The Doctor grimaced. "It doesn't work that way, Zephyr," he said quietly.

"Sherlock," Zephyr interrupted, angry. "My name is… _Sherlock_."

The Doctor stopped and looked at the little boy, who frankly, did look like a little boy.

"Sorry," the Time Lord said. He shook his head remorsefully. "I can't go back and change what's already happened, Sherlock. Terrible things happen if I try."

For a moment, Sherlock looked stricken. "…Then…" he said, voice trailing off. He looked off at the horizon with an expression that betrayed a very specific sort of disappointment.

He only knew the demon from their two meetings, but frankly, this was a shock to see him like this. The Doctor looked at Martha, who seemed lost in the conversation, and then back to the skyline. It was getting darker in the west. Something big was brewing.

"But…I can help stop what will happen," the Doctor said, resolute.

"That makes no sense," Sherlock said, bitter. He glared back at the Doctor. "How can you stop it now? No one can. It's already been done."

"Come on," the Doctor said, ignoring that pessimism. He started to walk briskly toward the TARDIS. "What else can we do to stop the Apocalypse?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said, falling into step with the larger human easily. "You are a mortal and I have no power over the forces of Heaven and Hell."

"Then what can we do?" Martha asked, trying to keep up.

They crossed the threshold of the TARDIS, but Sherlock stopped dead in the doorway.

"Crowley," he said in a low voice, his eyes wider.

Martha and the Doctor looked at each other. "Who?"

"Give me a minute," Sherlock said, speaking slowly, his expression torn between murderous and excited. "I have a demon to call."

He turned and walked toward a real payphone just down the block. Martha looked expectantly at the Doctor who shrugged. They didn't have to wait long; Sherlock spent a minute at the phone before coming back over.

"He's not answering," Sherlock said, glowering. "But I left a message. He'll know to follow us."

"Where to?" Martha asked, crossing her arms against her chest.

"The northwest, obviously," Sherlock replied. He was curt, but the Doctor remembered he was always like that. "Whatever little we can do, we obviously must do it there."

The Doctor nodded. "Sounds like a plan."

He swept inside the TARDIS and set about getting them ready to move toward the northwest—where Tadfield was, now that he thought about it. The bikers had mentioned it. Interesting.

"By the way…" The Doctor glanced over at the boy standing stiffly on the floor of the TARDIS, looking decidedly out of place. "That body…?"

"Is mine," Sherlock said, shooting the Time Lord a glance that dared him to challenge the demon. "The child was dead, in a vegetable state. I've been in it for the last seven years."

He hesitated. "It's… the closest I can get to my own," he admitted.

The Doctor smiled broadly. "You did good, Zephyr," he said, meaning it.

"My name is Sherlock now," Sherlock told him firmly. He met his gaze with bright grey eyes that suited him. "Sherlock Holmes."

"I get you, Sherlock," the Doctor said, nodding. He turned back inside and went about getting the TARDIS mobile.

They had an apocalypse to stop.

xxx  
(1) Martha did miss it, but Sherlock never misses anything.

**0000**

**Lower Tadfield**

The first time the Doctor had entered Sherlock's life, it had been back in the 1500s in France and the alien had offered Sherlock a ride through space inside his TARDIS machine. He had turned the offer down simply because Sherlock knew his place was on Earth.

Now, upon exiting the blue box, Sherlock felt immensely glad he had refused back then. He might not have survived any longer than a trip west to Tadfield.

"This thing is an abomination," he said, through gritted teeth. He had never once been disconnected from the Earth; even temporarily moving through time and space like that had been incredibly unsettling. He had felt every single twist and turn.

"Careful, you'll hurt her feelings," Martha said, laughing. She looked back at their driver, who looked irritatingly smug. "I thought you said you two were old friends."

"Well, yes, from _Earth_ ," the Doctor said, cheerful. "He turned down my first offer to come along in the TARDIS."

"I am very glad I did," Sherlock muttered. He tucked his hands into his coat pockets. It was even worse up here, the feeling of dread building up in the air.

"So, you really aren't a little kid?" Martha asked, walking beside him.

"Not if you consider a six thousand-year-old spirit to be a 'little kid'."

"Ah. Say no more."

He did have to admit, the Doctor knew how to pick traveling assistants. At least she seemed remotely competent. Sherlock was curious to know where the blonde had gone, but judging by the tense drawback of the Doctor's shoulders at the previous question, she was either dead or she left. It was irrelevant.

They had arrived in the middle of a field, close to the road. Sherlock was unfamiliar with the area, but he didn't dare try to use his powers to look further than what was in front of him. The entire area was rank with energy and…something he could not quite place.

"What are we looking for—?" Martha started to ask, but a horrendous crashing noise cut her off. The two mortals jumped and Sherlock merely turned to the road. There was a bend that was barely hidden by a hill.

They walked up to the hill quickly. Sherlock knew the crash was merely a human disaster; it was far too mild to be anything related to the End.

"That doesn't sound like an apocalypse," the Doctor said, his face scrunched up. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Martha peered over the hill and made a soft sound. "A car accident!"

"Who cares?" Sherlock asked, impatient. He glared over at the two time travelers and marched up to them on the hill. "This isn't… _wait_."

There were two things to look at once they got to the top of the hill: the crash site and what looked like four human children standing around it. The flipped car was of no importance to Sherlock; a human woman was tending to a dark haired man who looked unconscious. The children had helped to pull the human from the flipped car, but the woman shoed them away. They willingly left, talking excited, but in their midst, Sherlock saw a terrifying sight: a blond haired boy who shone like a beacon to the demon.

"That's him," he whispered, his human heart beating rapidly.

The Doctor stared at him. "Who him?"

Sherlock knew his fear was visible on his face. "It's… the Anti-Christ," he said, shivering. "It's _him_. The Adversary, the Master, the Great Beast that is called Dragon. I… would know him anywhere."

His entire body throbbed when the Adversary turned his gaze up to those on the hill. It took everything Sherlock had in him not to flee in terror and awe.

"We'll take your word for it," Martha muttered, unaffected. She bravely walked down the hill toward the humans on the road. "Hey, is everything alright?"

With the children now walking off in an excited buzz, there was only a woman left by the car's side, with the unconscious human at her feet. "Yes…" The woman blinked at them, her eyes narrowing slightly when she noticed the Doctor and Sherlock specifically. "The children helped the poor man out."

"I'm Martha Jones, I'm a physician," Martha said, shaking the woman's hand firmly. She knelt down next to the prone man the children had dragged out of the car and looked him over. "He seems all right…just a knock to the head. But he should get to a hospital to be certain."

"I'm Anathema Device," the woman—she was no ordinary human, from what Sherlock could tell—said. She inclined her head back toward the cottage just down the road. "I'll get him inside my place and let him rest up."

"Shouldn't you wait for the paramedics out here?" Martha asked, frowning.

Anathema shrugged. "Oh, no, he's not terribly injured."

The Doctor and Martha exchanged a look. "You sure?" Martha asked, wisely not fighting her on this. Even she could tell that something other than human-business was underway.

"Very," Anathema said simply. She knelt down and grabbed the man under his arms. "Excuse me."

Martha stopped her. "Hey, hold on a sec, we'll help you," she said. She looked back to the Doctor and Sherlock, motioning for them to follow her away from the wreck to speak alone. "Come here…"

"Got a plan, Martha?" the Doctor asked, curious as they got away from the frowning human. Sherlock was certain what Anathema was now.

"That woman is a witch," Sherlock announced, interrupting Martha.

She blinked. "You sure?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Either that, or a powerful psychic. She must know what is going on in the area."

Martha bit her lip. "How about this…" She glanced over her shoulder at the humans. "I stay with Miss Device and see what she knows about these weird events. Doctor, you go look for that Crowley fellow."

Sherlock kept looking down the road, toward the swell of energy still looming there, where the Anti-Christ stood. He hastily took out a notepad and scribbled a few lines.

He looked up at the Doctor. "Crowley is… _allied_ with an angel, Aziraphale, who has a bookshop in Soho. The address," he said, handing the paper over to the Doctor, who looked curious still. "Get one of them in on this."

"What will you do?" the Doctor asked, seemingly taking well to the orders.

Sherlock steadied himself. "I will confront the Anti-Christ," he said. He sounded far more confident about that than he felt.

"What?" Martha asked, startled. "Are you sure?"

"This will require a manner of tact you both do not possess." He looked up at them when they waited an explanation. He arched a dark eyebrow. "You're both adults."

The Doctor blinked. "Oh. Right."

"We're really leaving this in the hands of a ten-year-old?" Martha asked, as Sherlock headed toward the circle of children.

"They're eleven, I think, actually…" he heard the Doctor tell her. Sherlock shook his head and left them to handle the witch.

He walked down the road and quickly caught up to the four children who had left the crash site. Their conversation seemed to indicate they felt like they had helped save the male human's life, but Sherlock only cared about the blonde haired child in their midst. He looked no older than Sherlock, and yet, Sherlock could feel the immense power building beneath the boy's skin. It wasn't the End yet, but it was coming.

Sherlock stepped up behind the four as they chattered on, oblivious.

"…where're they going to send a medal anyway?" the redhead girl said. "To our houses?"

The Anti-Christ shrugged. "Nah, they're just show up on the door. It'll be a nice ceremony on the lawn."

The dirty boy opened his mouth to disagree, but he stopped when he saw Sherlock standing there like a specter on the path. He squinted his eyes.

"Oi, who's that?" the boy asked. His companions, including the Anti-Christ, turned to look at Sherlock.

The moment their eyes met, Sherlock felt a shiver go through him. The Anti-Christ took him in— _all of him_ —and smiled.

"Hi," the Adversary said. "I'm Adam."

Sherlock shivered. "I'm Sherlock," he said.

"What are you?" Adam asked, seeing more than just a Holmes boy on the path.

"I'm the wind," Sherlock said, knowing he could not lie. "You're the Anti-Christ."

Adam's face dropped a little. "No, I'm just Adam," he said. He hesitated a little. "I thought I was, anyway."

"Things are changing," Sherlock agreed, feeling just a little sad about that. This was a boy, and yet, he was also the greatest calamity to ever exist. If anything were to ever be a pity, it would be that.

"Did you just move here?" the wavy, fair-headed boy asked. He looked rather severe for an eleven-year old.

"No, I live in London," Sherlock answered. He tucked his hands into his pockets. "Where are you going?"

"Back to our base," Adam said. He smiled again. "Wanna come?"

The redhead girl scowled. "Why're you inviting him? We don't know 'im."

"He's interesting," Adam told her. He glanced back at the demon. "Come on, Sherlock."

Going with him was dangerous. He was the Anti-Christ. He didn't seem diabolical and he certainly didn't seem like he knew what he was to do later that day. Sherlock did not want to risk pushing the boy over the edge. He also did not want to leave him and then not be able to help him resist the urge to cause the End.

Troubling.

Sherlock looked behind him and saw Martha was alone helping Anathema carry Newt toward her cottage. The TARDIS was gone. The Doctor had gone off to find them assistance. Perhaps it was good that Sherlock was remaining there to watch for change in Adam before—

In front of him, the air grew just a little colder.

"Coming?" Adam asked, his beautiful face just slightly sharper.

Sherlock braced himself.

"Yes," he said, walking after the Lord of Darkness and his friends on weak legs.

**0000**

**Soho, West End of London**

Shadwell wasn't actually his great-uncle. He was an old family friend, but not to any family Lestrade could consider his immediate family. Still, Shadwell was well-known among the Lestrades and the Campbells in the U.K. and was almost adopted in the distant family ties as a fellow hunter. He wasn't really old enough to be a great-uncle, but the moniker fit well (and for whatever reason, Shadwell believed it to be true.)

That said, he was a very particular breed of hunter. While most hunters took whatever job came their way—ghoul, vampire, demon, ghost—Shadwell was a member of a very old sect of hunters called the Witchfinder Army. Lestrade had vague memories of the old man's rants back when they actually did contact him for assistance on cases. He sort of drifted off into his own bubble of non-existent work and everyone in the community generally agreed that it was "for the best." Much safer for the other hunters and innocent civilians Shadwell was infamous for targeting.

Lestrade did not feel guilty over not stopping by more often, because this was the sort of life he had been trying to leave behind. Also, Shadwell was insane and did not make for good company for longer than a few minutes at a time.

He arrived at the shop where Shadwell rented a small backroom as the base of his Witchfinder's Army. The kindly psychic in the front flat smiled at him when he stepped into the back hallway, but before they could greet each other, Shadwell came bustling out of his tiny back room.

"Uncle Shadwell, where are you going?" Lestrade asked, frowning at the little man as he shoved his moth-eaten hat on.

"Ach! If it isn't my useless nephew!" the shorter man snapped. He tugged a ratty looking scarf about his neck. "Get yer gun, laddie, we've got a case!"

"That's what I'm here for…" Lestrade muttered. He frowned at the other man. "What sort of case?"

"A witch walks this Earth, lad, and I ha' sent ou' one of my ane t' confront the De'el-spawn alone!" Shadwell took on an aggrieved expression. "T'my ane shame, lad, my shame."

Lestrade carefully held back a sigh. "So we're going to find your foot soldier?" He followed Shadwell out of the building. It was starting to rain. "It's getting ugly out here, uncle. Maybe this can wait."

"No, it cannae!" Shadwell barked.

" _Where_ exactly are we headed?" Lestrade asked, grimacing. He hoped this wouldn't last all night.

"To the first o' our sponsors," Shadwell muttered. He glared up at the sky as if angry at it for raining on him. "They sent us t' confront a rising wave o' witches in the northwest, in Tadfield. Need to pick up my payment t' get there."

"Right…" Lestrade blinked. "Wait, _whose_ been paying you?" Shadwell got _paid_ for hunting? That didn't seem fair at all.

"Southern pansies, both o' them!" Shadwell said, shaking his head with disdain. "But the Army needs t' be provided for. Th' call to rid the Earth o' the mark o' th' Beast cannae be ignored."

"This is going to be hilarious," Lestrade muttered under his breath. "I'm just curious to meet who the hell would fund a _Witch_ finder."

Definitely not another hunter; Shadwell was too well known to be treated as an actual asset. Though… maybe it was someone in the community, considering that Shadwell didn't have any other sources of income. A charity action made sense, but Lestrade could not fathom why someone would fake being a sponsor to keep Shadwell off the streets by giving him fake cases, too. For Shadwell's track record, it was too risky (1).

Lestrade reluctantly chauffeured the mumbling Shadwell over to his supposed sponsor's address. Lestrade was displeased when they entered Soho and then wound up in front of what was clearly a second-hand bookshop.

"This is a bookshop," Lestrade said, sighing heavily as he turned his car off. "Are you sure it's the right address?"

"Aye!" Shadwell said, resolute as they approached the store. He opened the door, which was unlocked despite the fact that the lights were dimmed inside. "Now, where is tha' Southern pansy—?"

The inside of the shop was musty and unwelcoming. Lestrade frowned and realized that he shouldn't have been involved in this if Shadwell had not in fact been invited; this was basically breaking and entering. Lestrade did not need that getting linked back to his name now.

No one was visible in the front of the shop. Lestrade had expected to wait at the front until the shopkeeper appeared. Shadwell was impatient, but both hunters froze when voices drifted up from the back of the shop.

Lestrade was not a paranoid man, not like his father and Shadwell were, but it would be incorrect to say he had not been instilled with their sense of survival instincts when odd things, like whispered voices, came his way.

"…doesn't have to be any of that business with one third of the seas turning to blood or anything!"

" _Why not?_ "

"Well, you can simply make sure that—"

" _We will_ win _, Aziraphale._ "

"Yes, but—"

" _The forces of darkness must be beaten. You seem to be under a misapprehension. The point is not to avoid the war, it is to win it._ "

Lestrade froze at the counter, his heart racing. That was not a human voice. He saw the glow leaking out from behind the back bookshelves. The conversation going on was not about books. It was…

Beside him, Shadwell looked torn between being sick and ecstatic.

"Ye hear that?" he whispered quickly.

"That's no witch," Lestrade whispered, eyes going wider and wider on his face. "That's…"

 _Biblical_ , he thought, only a little hysterically.

"… _you will of course be joining us, won't you?_ " the inhuman voice asked. There was an odd hum to it, like it was a distant mechanical sound.

"Well, er, of course it has been simply ages since I've held a flaming sword—" came the second jittery voice. It sounded human.

" _Yes, we recall. You will have a lot of opportunity to relearn._ "

Lestrade did not have a gun yet from the Met, but he didn't need it. He brought out his own, a gift from his father when he had turned six (2). He glanced to Shadwell, who seemed frozen, and didn't move forward.

"—I'll just clear up a few business matters, shall I?" the human was saying, sounding just as tense as Lestrade felt. What was this?

" _There hardly seems to be any necessity._ " The light rippled slightly between the books.

There were a few more murmured exchanges, but then the voices stopped. Lestrade heard the human figure in the back of the shop breathing heavily and then there was a minor scramble. He heard the sound of a phone being lifted off a receiver and a number being dialed.

"Crowley!" the human hissed, as if the inhuman presence was still there listening in; there was still a light, but it was right there, so hiding from it seemed like a useless task. "Listen! I haven't got much time! The—shut up! Listen! It was in Tadfield! It's all in that book! You've got to stop—I want to talk to you _now_ —stop making noises! It was in Tadfield this whole—bugger!"

Lestrade had no clue what was going on. He moved closer and Shadwell followed suit, breathing heavily behind him. Lestrade could almost make out the back of the human hastily dialing another number.

"Crowley!" the figure tried again. "It's me! …are you alone? Listen—!"

"Awa' we ye, ye spawn o' hell!" Shadwell suddenly burst out, stomping forward. Lestrade jumped and cursed.

Moving up after him, Lestrade was finally able to see the rest of the bookshop. He saw a light hovering inside a _clearly_ magical circle in the center of the room. The figure by the phone was a pudgy blond haired man that did not look magical, but even Lestrade knew looks were deceiving. He raised his gun, but felt increasingly at odds about the situation. Shadwell did not share his hesitance.

"I'll have ye, ye evil bastard!" Shadwell roared, advancing closer. "I ken what ye be about, comin' up here and seducing wimmen to do yer evil will!"

"I think perhaps you have the wrong shop," the odd figure—Aziraphale, wasn't it?—said, looking wary. He hastily hung up the phone. "Uh…"

"I could see what yer were aboot!" Shadwell said, practically foaming at the mouth. He pointed at Aziraphale, as threatening as a rabid pocket dog.

Lestrade frowned. "What was all that?" he demanded instead, nodding his head at the magic circle.

"Things are not what they seem," Aziraphale said in a careful voice.

Shadwell made a derisive sound. "I bet they ain't! You've got a bell, a book—practically a candle!"

Aziraphale's gaze snapped down to where Shadwell was walking. "I think it might not be a very good idea to walk into the—," he started to say.

"By the powers invested in me by virtue o' my office o' Witchfinder," Shadwell said; Lestrade grimaced. "I charge ye to quit from this place—!"

"Really, the circle, it would be very unwise for a human to set foot in it without—," the creature in front of them said, now more alarmed. Lestrade hesitated at that. What about the circle?

"—and return henceforth to the place from which ye came—!"

"Stay out of the circle, you stupid man!" the creature said, holding his hand out to stop Shadwell, who was now just in front of the circle.

"—never come again to vex—!"

Lestrade abruptly realized he probably should have stopped his uncle then.

"Yes, yes, but _please_ keep out of the—!" Aziraphale shouted, moving forward at last. Lestrade tensed up and was ready to pull the trigger.

"—returning NAE MORE!" Shadwell said, pointing his blackened finger toward the creature fearlessly.

Lestrade held his breath. "Uncle Shadwell!" he said, lowering his gun when the creature in front of them abruptly stopped dead in his tracks. "What the hell are you—?"

Aziraphale was looking down at the floor, where one of his feet was inside the circle.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," the creature said, before disappearing along with the blue light and a melodious twang.

Lestrade froze; there was no explosion or loud noise. The creature and the light had vanished in one swift move. He waited for a long second in the dim candlelight for something else to happen. Was that a demon? It didn't feel like one. The whole thing—he had never seen or heard anything like it before.

"Shadwell," he said hoarsely. He grabbed his stunned uncle by the shoulder. "Come on, let's go."

They would call in the rest of the clan to handle this. Lestrade didn't feel right being involved in it now. It felt wrong—

Shadwell's moth-eaten coat sleeve caught on the counter. Before Lestrade could stop it, his uncle accidentally sent the candles flying across the surface and then onto the floor.

"Shadwell! You—!" Lestrade hauled his uncle out of the way when the hot wax flew onto the books on the floor and the whole thing went up in a whoosh of hot air. "Oh, _bugger it_. Get out, get out!"

They ran for the door as the flames spread across the inside of the shop like a wildfire.

xxx  
(1) That one time he attacked the Mayor of Lambeth was still too fresh in Lestrade's mind for comfort.  
(2) He had asked for a Batmobile Corgi Crime Fighter Car.

**0000**

**Salt Quarry, Lower Tadfield**

Sherlock had followed the Them, as the four children called themselves, down to an old salt quarry, where they had built up a little structure with a roof. Adam's dog (a hellhound, actually) bounded around them, but settled beside his master eagerly. Sherlock had expected to get down to business by talking to Adam succinctly about stopping the End, since Adam did seem like an intelligent boy. The children kept talking, however, and Sherlock was left by the wayside.

The children were arguing about whales. _Whales_. It appeared that the Anti-Christ had been learning about environmental disasters and was not pleased by what he had learned.

"…'s gonna be a fine old world to grow up in. No whales, no air, and everyone paddlin' around because of the seas risin'," the Adversary was saying. He was growing darker. Sherlock shivered and kept looking at the boy as if waiting for him to explode.

His female friend, Pepper, made a face. "Then the Atlantisans'd be the only ones well off," she said.

"They'd be able to go everywhere," Brian, the dirty one, agreed. "The Atlantisans, I mean—"

All at once, Adam shifted. "I'm fed up with the ole Atlantisans and Tibetans," he said, shutting down the conversation in one swift move. His friends looked at him curiously because they didn't sense the danger.

Sherlock sank against the quarry wall and it took everything he had not to run. He could only stare at the Anti-Christ, who only became darker and _darker_.

"Jus' when you think the world's all full of amazin' things, they tell you it's really all dead whales and chopped down forests and nucular waste hangin' about for millions of years." Adam's eyes hardened. "'Snot worth growin' up for, if you ask my opinion."

He threw a small stick off into the distance and Sherlock sank further. He was lost in the darkness. Adam was becoming the sole beacon, which grew brighter despite the choking sense of despair that came from him as well.

"Serve everyone right if all the nucular bombs went off and it all started again, only prop'ly organized," Adam said. He patted his dog's head absently. "Sometimes I think that's what I'd like to happen, so we could sort everythin' out."

Nuclear bombs. That sounded…vaguely important. Sherlock couldn't remember why that would be important to him; Adam's interest seemed to be coming from his negative emotions toward the adults in the world. Then again, maybe Adam had a point. Adam was pretty good at making points—

Blinking, Sherlock suddenly realized he was sitting down on the cold ground. The other children seemed uncomfortable as Adam spoke about creating a new world, just for them. Sherlock blinked again, fighting an odd haze.

Why was he just _sitting_ there? He had come down there to talk Adam out of blowing the world up. Why was he listening to this disturbing yet childish banter?

Sherlock made a low sound when he realized. It was… Adam. Adam! He was the bloody Anti-Christ. Every demonic entity bowed to him (the hellhound at Adam's feet was also whining in low subservience) and Sherlock was no different. It was nature. It was more natural than nature.

He couldn't stay there. Sherlock felt a pang of terror course through him as the children tried to distract their leader, but Adam only grew darker. If Sherlock stayed any longer, he wouldn't be able to focus.

There were other places to be. The talk of nuclear weapons—that had to be it. He had to warn the Doctor that Adam was focusing the apocalypse on nuclear warfare; his influence on the manner of destruction could be vital. Sherlock had to send someone else back here to deal with Adam later. He couldn't stay; he kept getting lost in what Adam _was_.

On shaky legs, Sherlock stumbled past a confused Brian and tried to focus on the path leading out of the quarry. If he could only get out of sight, out of earshot—

"Where are you going?" Adam asked coldly, before he could leave the safe prison under the tin roof.

Zephyr whined.

"No where," he said, and it was true.

**0000**

**Soho, West End of London**

"Oh, God, I'm going to get fired," Lestrade whispered into his hands. "Haven't even got the bloody job really and I'm already sacked. Bloody hell…"

He had run to another store to call the fire department. He did everything he could to remove his name and presence from the equation, but it had felt wrong to merely rush off. He was trying to be a police officer, someone who didn't just burn a house of witches down and leave without taking responsibility for it, and leaving the scene was undoubtedly irresponsible. He still refrained from exposing the fact he had been inside, merely telling the arriving officers he had been outside and had seen the flames. It seemed to work.

Whatever he had seen inside, it was over. Now he just had to tolerate being a witness to an ordinary accident. It still felt wrong to stand on the sidelines of the crowd that was forming to watch the firefighters battle and lost against the flames.

And then Shadwell—that lunatic had rushed off into the rain while Lestrade had been distracted by the police. He had been in terrified awe of his "powers" to confront the "darkness," though Lestrade knew that it had been sheer dumb luck, whatever it was that happened.

What had happened, though? Lestrade kept playing the incident over and over in his mind, but he was still at a loss. He had never seen a creature like that or magic that acted that way. It felt _all wrong_. And what he had heard being said… felt weird, too.

Lestrade knew he should have called his father or George to report the incident. Shadwell certainly wouldn't think to. He'd call later, once he was out of the crowd. He still had to fill out an incident report, though Lestrade would certainly avoid mentioning incriminating factors. He was already walking on eggshells.

"What happened?" someone next to him—a brown haired bloke in a blue suit—asked, sounding curious. The crowd had remained mostly the same size as the firemen did their best to put out the flames.

Lestrade ran a hand over his face. "I…" He exhaled sharply as they looked at the flames poking out of the storefront windows. The second floor was blazing now. "Store caught fire. Not going to be able to save much of it."

"Oh, no," the man next to him said. He sucked in a breath. "Do you know the owner? I was supposed to meet him."

"I, no, I don't know him," Lestrade said, distracted. He paused and then looked over carefully at the stranger. "…did you say you were going to meet him?"

"Yes," the stranger said, shrugging. He tucked his hands into his pockets. "Well, I suppose I should look to see if he's somewhere nearby."

Lestrade frowned. "Right…" he said, as the stranger ducked away. Whatever it was, something felt wrong about him. He had seen enough strangeness that day to prove his senses as a hunter weren't too rusty. He was half-considering going after the stranger—

A sudden cry rose up in the crowd assembled in front of the burning shop. Lestrade turned just in time to see a dark figure dashing into front of the bookstore.

"What's going on?" he asked, startled.

One of the police officers looked horrified. "That man just ran into the fire! Wouldn't stop, even though we tried to tell him not to!" he exclaimed.

"What?" Lestrade asked, jaw dropping. "Jesus, it's an inferno in there—!"

The fire team was still struggling with getting a hose out onto the windows in order to chase after the crazy man who had ran inside, but Lestrade knew it was lost cause. The second floor of the shop was already spitting flames out the windows. They'd be lucky if they didn't lose the surrounding buildings. The lunatic inside was probably already burnt to a crisp—

Lestrade felt like he had received a blow to the gut when he saw the dark figure barrel out of the front of the store. It was the same man, without his sunglasses, and he seemed to carrying something. The lunatic ignored the police and marched off with a book.

"What…?" Lestrade whispered, his hair rising all over his arms and neck.

That was too much to be coincidence.

In an instant, he was off running after the man. They barreled down the street and Lestrade knew the man was headed for what looked like a 1920s Bentley half-parked on the sidewalk just down the way.

"Hold it!" Lestrade shouted, pulling out his gun. Witnesses be damned, his father had taught him that much.

The stranger turned and eyed the gun with as much concern as one would a mosquito. He did stumble to a halt and glared at Lestrade.

"Give me a reason to," the stranger snapped, holding the book in his arms protectively. In the rain and bad lighting, Lestrade couldn't tell if his eyes were gold or not.

"Name's Lestrade. I'm a hunter," Lestrade said, breathing heavily. He raised his weapon, not taking any chances on poor lighting. "And you're not human."

It was always a gamble to say that, considering that sometimes, targets turned out to be merely really weird humans. However, when that line did work, it was always elicited the proper reaction. The stranger with the book immediately tensed up with a combination of frustration and alarm.

"Oh, _bless this_ ," he snarled. He pointed at Lestrade. " _Who_ are you—?"

"What do you need that book for?" Lestrade demanded.

Those golden eyes flashed; definitely not just the light. "None of your business," the creature said. He took a step forward, still unimpressed by the gun. "Back off."

Lestrade kept it steady in his grip anyway. "What's your name?"

"Anthony J. Crowley," the creature said, mockingly. He drew backwards, as if to leave. "Now then, if you don't _mind_ —"

"Crowley! Ha!"

Both men paused at the mouth of the alley. Lestrade turned warily and saw the man in the blue suit from earlier grinning at them from a few meters away. The brown haired man waved his hand at Crowley, who stared at him blankly.

"Do I know you?" the creature asked, almost as if threatening the man to admit to wasting his time.

"I'm the Doctor!" the man in the suit said cheerfully. He tucked his hands into his pockets and bounced on his heels. "Your friend sent me to find you, or Aziraphale, but it looks like he's not here."

Crowley flinched. "What friend? !"

"You know, Zephyr," the Doctor—clearly an alias—said. "I mean, Sherlock. Keep forgetting."

That caused Crowley to stop and give the Doctor his full attention.

"…what are you?" Crowley asked, which made Lestrade flinch.

"I'm a Time Lord," the Doctor said, smiling.

Lestrade blinked past rain. "What's a Time Lord?" he asked, earning the creature's attention. "You're not human?"

The Doctor shrugged. "I'm an alien, to be technical. A Time Lord."

 _Alien?_ Lestrade thought shrilly.

"Where is he? Zephyr?" Crowley interrupted, moving closer to the Doctor. Both were ignoring the hunter with the gun again.

"Combatting the Anti-Christ!" the Doctor said, grinning. He scratched the side of his nose. "Or something. I think he wants to talk him down."

"You found the Anti-Christ? !" Crowley exclaimed.

"The WHAT? !" Lestrade sputtered, now completely certain he was going mad.

The Doctor motioned with his hand. "Come on!" he said, walking back down the alley toward what looked like an old phone booth. "We should figure this out on the way!"

"Bloody hell…!" Lestrade looked over at Crowley in alarm. This whole thing was raving mad. "What's he talking about? The Anti-Christ? Is that what that bookkeeper was talking about?"

What the hell had he just walked into? This was unfair. This was totally, and completely, unfair for this to wind up on his lap. He had just spent the first part of his day planning his escape from the world of the supernatural!

"The world is ending," Crowley grunted. "We were trying to stop it." He paused and looked over at Lestrade as if only then noticing what the human had said.

In a split second, Crowley was on Lestrade, slamming him into the brick wall of the alley. Lestrade flailed, though there was no way he could remove the arm pinning his neck as if the arm were an iron bar.

" _What_ happened to Aziraphale?" Crowley hissed, his eyes gold and serpentine.

Lestrade swallowed hard, knowing it would be a mistake to lie. "He…vanished."

" _What_ do you mean, vanished?"

This was all ridiculously unfair. "My uncle—he's daft, it wasn't his fault—he made that guy, the Aziraphale guy, step into some magic circle! It was blue and glowing!" he sputtered.

That caused the demon to hesitate. "…circle…?" Crowley suddenly snarled and he backed away from Lestrade, who gratefully massaged his throat. "Oh, bollocks, he's either lost his body or dead. Just great."

"What are you two?" Lestrade asked, stunned.

"He was an angel," Crowley said, impatiently. He glared at the human with open distrust. "And I'm exactly what you think I am."

Down the alley, the Doctor waved his arm at them. "Are you coming?" he called from the front of his phone booth. Both Crowley and Lestrade looked at him with varying degrees of disdain and confusion.

"Don't get in my way, hunter," Crowley said lowly, glaring over at Lestrade, before stalking over to the alien, his odd book in hand.

Lestrade had about fifteen seconds to decide; he wound him chasing after the demon, because he was a fucking idiot.

**0000**

**Salt Quarry, Lower Tadfield**

He knew he was down in that salt quarry for a reason, but he honestly could not recall.

Perhaps it was to be near Adam. Yes, that sounded right.

Sherlock blinked. Above them, thunder rumbled and the dark clouds coiled in the air in terrible masses. It brought back a faint sense of clarity.

The Doctor. The witch. The…End. Sherlock took a deep breath. He had to focus.

"You need…" he started, but he stopped when Adam looked directly at him.

"I need what?" the Master asked.

Sherlock felt a strain on his mind. He had something to ask him, but he didn't remember. It all felt unimportant. The thunder snarled above them and the humans flinched.

"Sherlock," Adam said.

"Yes, lord?" he answered immediately.

Wensleydale made a face. "He isn't lord, he's _Adam_ ," he said, sounding like he didn't quite believe himself.

Adam looked deliberately at Sherlock. "What do you think? Won't a world just for us be _great_?" he asked, his eyes shining.

Sherlock didn't know; he thought whatever Adam thought best.

**0000**

**Jasmine Cottage, Tadfield**

After a nice long conversation over tea, Martha decided that Device was actually a witch. She also decided soon after that she was very much in over her head, as was the Doctor, considering just how biblical their situation was. Literally.

Anathema had been expecting to care for Newt Pulsifer, as he introduced himself about an hour later when he woke up, because she received warning of his car crash from the book of prophecies her ancestor, a witch named Agnes Nutter, had written in the 1655. Those prophecies predicted the End to happen that very day. Anathema showed off the card copies she had of the book, since the book had unfortunately been lost the day prior, and Martha had read through several of them. She didn't see any prophecies about herself or the Doctor, but a lot of the odd events happening outside, including Newt's car accident, seemed a little too accurate for Martha's comfort.

When Newt came to, Anathema explained about the prophecies, which Newt seemed to take in stride, though he was a bit nervous when he realized she knew he was a Witchfinder, and what did you know, she was a witch. There was talk about their mutual ancestors (turned out that Newt's ancestor had been the one to put Agnes Nutter to the stake). Martha didn't let them dither for long, consider they did have an apocalypse waiting for them.

Then a storm hit. A violent one. They all took cover and Martha had expected the entire building to collapse on top of them. It was like a hurricane. Eventually, it did subside, leaving them all covered in plaster and pieces of glass. Martha then discovered an unexpected way to screw up the time continuum that the Doctor had not warned her about (1).

"Something's wrong," Anathema said, brushing dust from her hair. She was an incredibly calm woman, though that might have been because she literally knew what was coming around the corner.

Martha looked over at her, pushing the bookcase she had been using as a shield away. "What? The storm?"

"No," the witch said. "You're here. This is not what I was expecting."

"Maybe it's just because your ancestor didn't expect a time traveler?" Martha suggested. She hesitated at Anathema's odd stare. "What's wrong with me being here?"

"Well, considering that you're here, Newt and I can't have intercourse as Agnes predicted," Anathema said.

Newt, in the process of getting to his feet, fell onto his face. "WHAT?" he squawked.

Martha stared at the two. "…I'm so sorry," she said, not exactly sure if she was embarrassed or horrified. Should she have apologized?

"No, I suppose it's all right," Anathema said, sounding resigned. She started to tidy up.

"No, seriously," Newt said from the floor, eyes as wide as saucers, " _what_?"

Martha passed the time looking through more of the cards. Some of the prophecies were uncomfortably accurate _("Whene menne of crocus come frome the Earth… and Leviathan runneth free…"_ ). It was disturbing, really. Once Newt had been brought up to speed, the attention of the conversation changed. Martha had no choice but to explain her own story, which was met with both shock from Newt and suspicion from Anathema.

"So, you're from the future?" Newt said, sounding winded.

"Yes." Martha played with the biscuit on her plate. "Only twenty or so years. The world's still there."

"That's impossible," Anathema said, frowning. "The world is going to _end_. Agnes wasn't wrong about anything else."

Martha had to consider that fact, but there were other factors to include. "Well, maybe that's beside the point," she said. "We're here now and there are others out there trying to fix things to stop the End."

"They won't succeed," Anathema said, taking a sip of tea from a cracked cup.

Newt sent her a smile. "Not with that attitude." He faltered under her immediate glare.

"Look," Martha said, standing up in front of them. The couch had survived the storm's attack on the house moderately well. "Was there _anything_ in the cards about me? Or the Doctor?"

Anathema looked like she was struggling internally with her answer. "…Not that I recall," she finally admitted with a sour expression.

"Then we can still fix things," Martha said, feeling confident. "You must know where this is going to end, right? What's the next step?"

"I'm not sure," Anathema said. She hesitated. "The closest we ever got to a final location was in 3477… but it makes no sense, really."

Beside the mention of Anathema and Newt's disrupted encounter, that prophecy mentioned what Martha assumed were the Hell's Angels she and the Doctor had encountered.

" _The calm cometh when Redde and Whyte and Blacke and Pale approache to Peas is Our Professioune_ ," Anathema read from one of the cards.

All three of them paused over that reading. Martha strained to figure out what Peas had to do with anything. Were they approaching a grocer? Maybe a farm?

"Wait…" Newt suddenly said. He sat upright, his face brighter. "I think I've got it!"

"What?" Anathema and Martha both asked, startled.

The Witchfinder smiled. "They've got it written down outside that American air base near here," he said excitedly. "It's _Peace is Our Profession_ or something. They put those kinds of signs up on boards outside air bases."

"But that air base only has computers," Anathema said, shaking her head. "It wouldn't be too useful for starting the apocalypse, would it?"

"Computers can do a lot," Newt said, expression suddenly grave. Martha was inclined to agree.

"We don't have anything else to go on," Martha said. She clapped her hands together. "I say we go to the base and check it out ourselves." It was a rational place, really. The Doctor was probably already there, knowing his habit of figuring out the right thing to do in these sorts of cases.

Anathema was still wary about leaping into fixing things, but Newt seemed more convinced. "What are your friends doing about this, by the way?" he asked.

"Well, the Doctor's friend, Sherlock," Mara began.

"—the demon," Anathema confirmed.

"—is talking to the Anti-Christ right now to try to change his mind about ending things," Martha finished. She shrugged. "They're the same age, so it might work."

The witch in their midst paused. "Same age…?" Anathema asked. She suddenly looked enlightened. "Oh…"

"You know him?" Martha guessed, arching an eyebrow. It was a small community, from the look of it.

"Yes," Anathema said, frowning even more. She tucked her long black hair behind her ears. "But continue."

Martha nodded. "The Doctor went to find the other demon, Crowley, and the angel, Aziraphale. They'll be able to help, I'm sure of it." She at least had very high hopes.

"It's worth a shot," Newt said, shrugging. He looked over at his supposed-intended, who was still displeased. "She has a point, Anathema. If things are supposed to happen a certain way, it's obviously what's happening now, otherwise it wouldn't be happening."

Anathema seemed undyingly loyal to the prophecies, though Martha had a feeling that came with the territory of being a 'professional descendant.'

"…as much as that bothers me to hear, I suppose you're correct," Anathema eventually said. She bit her lip. "She… got everything else right."

"But there's nothing about us supposed to be here?" Martha asked again, crossing her arms.

"Not that we could figure out!" Anathema insisted. "Most of the visions focus on the family, not strangers, so maybe that's why."

Martha sighed and looked out the broken window. It looked a little less deadly out there now. "Let's just get to the airfield and see what we can do."

"Won't the Americans stop us?" Newt asked, even as he retrieved his jacket.

"Probably," Martha admitted, though military intervention had never stopped her before. "But let's find out."

She sincerely hoped the Doctor would meet them there.

xxx  
(1) That would be cockblocking via time-travel.

**0000**

**Salt Quarry, Lower Tadfield**

Multiple things triggered the collapse.

Sherlock had been left in a sea of rising surety and plans Adam had devised. They had all made sense. Starting over made sense. Adam made sense.

The other children, the three humans, had listened to Adam's confidence and did not believe in it. They shied away from his growing vehemence and smiles about a better future for them. They didn't trust him like they should have.

It was when he told them that he could take Tadfield for his own that they finally had enough. It was when he told them it didn't matter if they disagreed with him. It was when he told them that he would just make them agree that the children finally gave into fear and tried to run from their leader.

"No, come back!" Adam howled, reaching for them. "I command you!"

The children stopped dead in their tracks. Adam made a gasping noise and shrank back in on himself as he heard the words he was saying.

All at once, Sherlock could breathe and sat upright. Adam's nerve and planning collapsed in an avalanche of horror and shame, nearly sweeping Sherlock along for the ride, but in that moment, he received clarity.

The End. The Doctor. Nuclear holocaust. Must stop it. Must stop the End.

"You… I'm sorry," Adam said, voice quaking. He was still reaching for his friends with a heartbroken expression. "I dint mean…"

Sherlock leapt to his feet and sent Adam a wild look. He waited for whatever else the Anti-Christ could throw at him, but finally, the behemoth that had been growing within him became too much.

Adam was lost in a torrent of understanding. He screamed an unnatural sound and Sherlock winced as it shot across the quarry and up into the storm above them. The children cowered against the wall and watched in silent horror.

Finally, Adam fell back away from that surge of power and stood there with his eyes closed. When he opened them, he was Adam Young again. Just a boy of eleven, who had seen the universe.

Sherlock did not take his chances again.

He moved forward and nearly fell to his knees before the Anti-Christ.

"I am Zephyr, the West Wind," he said, speaking quickly. "I have walked this Earth in one form or another for the last six thousand years. I _beg_ you, Adam Young, you must not let Earth be destroyed."

"Why not?" Adam asked. His eyes were bright; he was still fighting something deep within him.

"Because _look_ at it!" Sherlock exclaimed, motioning with both his arms around them. He looked at the Anti-Christ pleadingly. "You love this place, don't you? You want to be here. You said it yourself."

He kept imagining the Holmes estate, Mummy, Mycroft and Father. He imagined his room with all of his books and the experiments left lying around, never to be finished. He was not done with this world yet, nor with this life. If Adam felt even remotely similar about his own slice of Earth here, then maybe they had a chance.

"But… maybe I could keep it this way," Adam said, still struggling.

"But that wouldn't be right," Sherlock said, shaking his head. The boy had already been told the same by his friends. He moved closer, speaking desperately and he knew it. "Let nature take its course. Let the people decide. Don't let these… _bureaucrats_ decide it for you."

"What's a bureaucrat?" Brian asked, voice tiny.

"An adult," Sherlock explained hastily. He looked back to Adam, who was listening. "You're right to say the adults have messed it all up, but some more than others."

Adam looked like he didn't want to say the wrong thing. "I… know," he said. "It's a lot like…like… Greasy Johnson."

Sherlock blinked. _Who?_

The other children agreed with the analogy, once Adam explained it. A rival gang of children in the area had always plagued the Them and caused them mischief. But a world without Greasy Johnson and his gang was a world without much purpose, the Them rationalized.

There always had to be wins and losses, for both sides, Adam said, realization in his eyes. There would always have to be an enemy for the good guys to fight, since well, the good guys would end up becoming their own enemies in turn.

That was the sort of logic Sherlock decided to place his bets on.

"Adam, please," he said. "You could the world from becoming that sort of place."

"How?" the boy asked, brow narrowed.

Sherlock hesitated. "You've seen the universe, haven't you?"

"Yeah," Adam said. He scratched the back of his leg with his foot. "I guess."

"Well, have you seen anything useful?"

"Maybe," Adam admitted. He frowned and still looked godly. "Sherlock, is the world going to end? Even if I do tell them to stop?"

Sherlock let his shoulders droop. "Only if you want it to," he said, speaking quietly under the thunder above them.

"I don't want it to. Not…really." Adam sighed. "I don't know."

"Only you can figure it out, unfortunately," Sherlock told him. He smiled faintly when Adam looked back at him.

"What if I don't?" the boy asked.

Sherlock hesitated. "Then… I'm not sure. It may happen anyway." The demon shook his head. "But the point is… if you put a stop to it? It will _definitely_ stop."

The cosmos would bend to Adam's will. That was clear. If Adam did nothing, the cosmos would move in the direction their unfortunate overseers—both Heaven and Hell—wanted it to. If Adam put his foot down, however, it could be enough to change their fate.

"They're coming," Adam said abruptly.

"Who is?" Brian asked.

"The Horsemen," he answered. Sherlock winced.

Wensleydale made a tsking sound. "That's unfortunate," he said, vaguely knowing it wasn't a good thing.

"No," Sherlock interrupted. He stepped forward and nodded encouragingly at them. "If there are still players in the game, it can still be played."

"He's right," Adam agreed, suddenly focused. "It's not over yet."

"What's not over?" Brian asked.

Pepper crossed her arms. "Everything, duh." For children, they were observant.

"What can we do?" Wensleydale asked, a little bit more alarmed.

"We do what we can," Sherlock said, looking at Adam, trying to get him to agree.

Adam frowned. "And that's what?"

"We're children, aren't we?" Sherlock asked. "And what can children do best?"

The four children glanced at each other. "…I don't know," Pepper said. Adam looked curious.

"Our parents and elders have given us instructions," Sherlock said. He grinned. "Let us disregard those instructions."

Deliberately, as a matter of proving his point, Sherlock decided he would not be home for dinner.

"You mean, do stuff anyway when they told us not too?" Brian asked, eyes squinted.

"Precisely."

Adam abruptly smiled. "Sounds good to me," he said. He nodded at his friends. "Let's go!"

"Where are we going?" Pepper asked, following after the boy as he walked toward the way out of the quarry. Their loyalty was inspirational in the wake of everything,

"The airfield base," Adam exclaimed. He sounded both excited and agitated. "They're going there. Let's hurry!"

Sherlock rushed after him, his heart pounding.

**0000**

**Somewhere in Inter-Dimensional Space Over London**

Lestrade was going to start shooting people, starting with himself, in the hope of waking up from this nightmare.

It was not enough that the phone booth was approximately twenty-times larger on the inside than it was on the outside. It was not enough that the crazy man piloting the apparent-craft wasn't human at all. It was not enough that the phone booth was actually a time travel machine used by the alien to travel through time and space like in a goddamn science fiction movie.

They also had to be in the middle of stopping the end of the world. They just had to go that far.

"What _are_ you?" Lestrade asked, gazing around in mild horror at the inside of the ship. This was nothing like what his father had told him about. He doubted any of the other hunters knew either.

The man up on the higher part of the bridge waved excitedly. "Time Lord!" He turned back to his computer-esque system and seemed intent on doing something with the controls. "This is the TARDIS by the way. The Time and Relative Dimension in Space—"

"I seriously do not care," Crowley interrupted. He did not seem at all unnerved by the fact they were hurtling through space-time. He was glaring up at the alien. "Start talking, Time Lord."

"Well, I thought we might first find Sherlock and Martha, but yes, I suppose we do have a lot to talk about," the Doctor said. Lestrade wondered what his real name was. The alien looked past the odd machinery down at the lower level. "You all right, Lestrade?"

That made the hunter blink. "Y-yeah…" He rubbed his arm and felt increasingly uncomfortable. "So, what… you're here to…?"

"Stop the end of the world," the Doctor said, with far too much cheer.

Lestrade tried to wrap his mind around that. "Why?" he asked. Why would a non-human care about Earth?

"Because it's not supposed to happen! I'm a time traveler, you see. I've been to Earth in the future, just _twenty_ years into the future, and it's nothing like this!" the Doctor said. He moved over to the side and looked down at the two passengers with a confident grin. "Something's gone wrong, that's what, and I'm here to help fix it."

"How benevolent," Crowley drawled. He might have looked at ease, but Lestrade could see a faint tension in his limbs, as if he were ready to leap into the air at any given time.

The Doctor leaned over the railing. "Sherlock told me that you could help."

" _Help_?" Crowley repeated, laughing sharply. He shook his head. "I can't do anything to stop the End."

"Why not?" the Doctor asked, surprised.

"I'm just a demon," Crowley said, gesturing at himself. "I can't stop the forces of Heaven and Hell from waging war."

That was not what Lestrade expected to hear. Sure, he couldn't expect one demon to amount to much, that was logical, but…

"Why would you?" he asked, before he could think better of it. Crowley sent him a glare, but Lestrade remained firm. "Stop them, I mean? You're a _demon_."

"And you're highly unimaginative," the demon shot back, surprising Lestrade. Crowley shrugged. "There's nothing for me in Hell winning and _certainly_ nothing for me if Heaven won."

The Doctor smiled sadly. "Earth's a nice place, isn't it?" he asked.

"The only nice place," Crowley said, only slightly melancholic.

"Then we need to put together a plan!" the Doctor said, springing back with newfound vigor. Lestrade sighed.

"Aziraphale started to do something. Probably why he's gone," Crowley said, grimacing. He held up the book he had taken from the burning store. "His superiors probably caught wind of it. Dead, maybe."

Lestrade tried his best to keep up with the conversation and names. "Wait… Aziraphale, he was an angel?" he asked.

Crowley glared at him out of the corner of his yellow eye. "Yeah?"

Lestrade almost choked. "Bloody heck, did I hear _God_ talking in there?" he sputtered. There was another voice, an inhuman one, in the shop. Was that—no, that was impossible.

His question caused Crowley to turn completely and look at the hunter in shock. "You heard their conversation?"

It all came tumbling out. Lestrade explained as best he could about Shadwell—whom Crowley admitted to funding as a way to keep tabs on various supernatural things in the area, which made Lestrade uneasy—and the mysterious conversation. He only remembered bits of what he had heard, but Crowley seemed to get a decent amount from it.

The demon nodded. "That was probably just the Voice of God, not actually God. Heh, rumor is that _nobody_ knows where God is," he said, smirking. He coughed and held up the book. "Anyway, this book might be of some use. He was decrypting it."

"What sort of book?" the Doctor asked, moving over now to look at the singed cover. Lestrade did his best not to imagine where the TARDIS was without its driver at the helm. " _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter_?"

Crowley grunted as he flicked through the pages. "Some 17th century witch predicted the End. Maybe there's something in here that'll help us."

"Prophesizing the apocalypse ain't too nice," Lestrade muttered, feeling just a little bitter again.

The demon sent him a sharp look. " _Nice_ doesn't mean—never mind," he said, bristling. "Let's see what the angel wrote…"

This Aziraphale had translated the book apparently, leaving behind several sheets of notes. Lestrade found himself a third wheel while Crowley sped through the notes with inhuman speed and likely inhuman accuracy. The Doctor's cheer visibly faded as he read the notes Crowley was done with. Lestrade couldn't make heads or tails of a lot of the notations (what was with all the numbers?) but he could read the underlined messages the supposed-angel had left behind.

None of them were good.

"It's really happening then, the End?" the Doctor asked quietly.

"Ngk," Crowley grunted, his expression a mask.

Lestrade only knew a little about the more biblical side of the supernatural world. He had always imagined angels existing, more as a law of balances than anything spiritual. Demons existed and so did Hell, so clearly, the opposite end of the spectrum had to be filled too. He had just never imagined himself being so closely involved in the actual end of the world.

He suddenly felt light-headed. The Doctor had moved over to the side and was peering at the notes, without the cheer he had possessed earlier.

"I went to a planet before… they called it the Impossible Planet," he said suddenly. He smiled mirthlessly. "The Devil was there."

Both Crowley and Lestrade flinched. "What?" Crowley asked. "That's impossible. He's in Hell."

The Doctor shook his head. "No, no, I think it was… what did you people call it? A cage?" he asked. He shrugged. "I think it was just a doorway to wherever the Devil was."

Crowley looked uncomfortable. "…perhaps. I guess _that's_ not impossible," he said.

"Hmm."

Lestrade closed his eyes and fought of a rising headache. This was not what he wanted to think about. He opened them and looked over the papers again. They worked in silence; all of them ignored the rising sense of dread invading the inside of the ship.

"What's this name?" Crowley asked, breaking the silence. He was pointing at the corner of one of the last pages.

It was a listing of phone numbers and names. "Your friend was looking for a bloke with the name Young…" Lestrade murmured. He pointed at one of the names that had been circled. "What's this one? Adam? Adam Young?"

"We need to find Adam Young then," the Doctor said, confident. Crowley nodded in agreement.

"Who?" Lestrade asked.

"The Anti-Christ," the alien replied with a smile.

Bloody heck.

**0000**

**Lower Tadfield**

No adult, no child, and no demon would get in their way up to the airfield. Sherlock sat on the back of a prim black bicycle as the Them pedaled their way toward the military base. He felt light and sick, but he also felt exhilarated. This was going to be either the End or something even more climatic.

He could feel the change in Adam Young, who was now adamantly set on stopping the End. Sherlock smiled to himself as they drove over the bumps in the road. After encountering that odd neighbor who disliked the Them and chastised them for rushing off toward the base, the four children were far more agitated as they thought about what they were going to do. Even the human children in the group seemed to finally understand the gravity of the situation… in their own childlike ways.

"How're we gonna do this?" Brian asked suddenly. Sherlock glanced at the boy, curious.

"What'd you mean?" Adam asked.

"You said we gotta go stop the people up at the airfield," Brian said. "But they've got guns and stuff."

"We're not gonna be fighting the soldiers," Pepper said. She looked back at Adam. " _Are_ we?"

"No," the Anti-Christ admitted. He frowned. "We need…stuff."

"Stuff?"

He looked like he was concentrating hard. "A sword, a crown and…"

"Scales," Sherlock said quietly.

"Right. Scales."

"What? Here?" Pepper said, surprised. They stopped riding and came to a slow stop on the road. She looked around them on the ground. "There's nothing like that here."

Adam looked conflicted. The four children looked around for anything useful. Sherlock sighed quietly.

"You've played games your whole lives," he said, surprising them. He sent Adam a meaningful glance. "Surely, you know what to do with a stick when you need a sword."

Adam blinked and then he grinned. "Cor, you're really smart." And thus, it was so, Sherlock thought, amused. The children scrambled to grab whatever they could find alongside the road.

"I'm a genius," Sherlock said simply. "Let's keep going, okay?"

As the children started to pedal again (their valuable weapons now in hand), Adam glanced over at Sherlock on the back of Wensleydale's bike. "You're really not just the wind, huh?" the Adversary asked. "You're a whole different part of it. Like a bubble."

Sherlock smiled faintly. "I haven't been part of it for many years," he said. He straightened and turned his eyes toward the north, where the airfield was. "You keep leading them, Adam. I need to go ahead."

"And do what?" Adam asked.

He didn't really want to, but Sherlock didn't have a choice. "I'll clear the path for you," he said, looking back at the boy. If anything, he'd stall the apocalypse any way he could.

Adam hesitated; he knew what was waiting there. "Thanks, Sherlock," he said.

Sherlock held his gaze for a long moment. "Don't mention it."

He didn't hesitate to use his powers. He was gone from the bike and the road in an instant. The wind hurtled him forward, and all at once, he was home. It had been years since he had been able to unleash his true nature and embrace the element of nature he had been created for: the wind.

It was a short reunion; he forced himself to travel as quickly as he could toward the airfield. He landed on the ground harshly near the gate, but the guards had missed seeing him thankfully.

Sherlock looked down the road and saw the same car that had crashed outside the witch's house. It didn't take him long to spot the humans—three of them: the Doctor's assistant, the witch, and the car's driver. He found them by a fallen tree that had taken down part of the fence. How convenient. Sherlock marched up to them and loomed as best he could at a height of a meter and a quarter. Martha looked up at him first.

"You, woman," he said briskly, forgoing pleasantries. He pointed at the woman, who didn't look incredibly surprised to see him. "You are the Doctor's assistant, correct?"

"Sure, let's call it that," she said, pursing her lips.

The dark haired man next to Martha—Newt Pulsifer, as he later learnt—squinted. "Is that a kid?"

"No, not really," Anathema Device sighed.

"Listen!" Sherlock snapped. He pointed at the air base. "The Horsemen coming. We need to get inside before they do something to the computers."

Martha, despite looking a little irritated from his comments, immediately focused and he was grateful for it. The other two humans looked a little less willing to go rushing into the base.

"What will they do to the computers?" Newt asked, wary.

"Come now," Sherlock said, scoffing. He sent the human a sarcastic look. "The only thing useful here would be the computers. No weapons to start a war—just the fire to set the flames elsewhere."

"He's right," Martha said, expression grim.

"Adam, the Anti-Christ, was certain the world would end by nuclear holocaust." Sherlock looked over at the base. "We need to stop them from setting it off."

"Stop who?" Newt asked.

"The Horsemen," Sherlock said, impatiently.

"…of the Apocalypse," Anathema finished.

"They're already here," Sherlock said. He closed his eyes and winced at the ripples in the area's aura. Great power had already descended upon the base. "I can feel them. War… Famine… Pollution…"

He shuddered at the fourth one.

"Death?" Martha prompted, glancing at him.

"Yes." Sherlock looked back up at her, grimacing. "Death is here."

Like a chill in the wind, he was there. Then again, Sherlock considered, had he ever left?

"We need to get inside the base," he said out loud, forcing the fear from his mind. They didn't have time for petty emotion.

"But the guards…" Newt murmured, looking over the field warily.

"Leave that…" Martha said, cracking her knuckles briefly, "to me."

"Lead the way, doctor," Anathema said, standing back as Martha marched onto the field.

"She's not the Doctor," Sherlock said, frowning.

Newt blinked. "No, I mean, Dr. Jones. She's a doctor, too."

Sherlock paused. "…oh."

Just then, a blaring alarm erupted from the base and Sherlock knew they were too late.

**0000**

R. P. Tyler, after having directed a swarm of bikers, a herd of children, and then a strange ventriloquist (1) to the local military base, was not exactly surprised he was directing yet another group of people to the base before he was done walking his dog.

It was a bit odd to see a blue phone booth on the corner of his street, when he distinctly remembered there not being anything there earlier. It was even odder to see three grown men sticking their head out. The one in the blue suit waved cheerfully at him.

"Excuse me, do you happen to know where a military base would be in the area?" the stranger asked.

The blond haired man next to him scowled. "How'd you know it's going to be a military base?" he asked.

"Come on, it's the end of the world," the man in the suit said. "The Horsemen, I think they'd want a nuclear war."

"Makes sense," the one in the dark sunglasses muttered.

The man in the suit turned back to Mr. Tyler. "Anyway, can you direct us to the nearest military base, please?" he asked politely.

At that point in the day, Mr. Tyler merely pointed the same way he had for the previous three groups of people who had asked him. "There's the American base, just up the road, on your left."

"Any nukes there?" the blond haired man asked, a little wary.

"Just computers," Mr. Tyler said, frowning

"Oh, well, that's even better I suppose," the stranger in the suit said. He nodded at Mr. Tyler politely. "Thank you!"

His disappeared in the box, as did his companions. Mr. Tyler snorted and walked away with his dog, thoroughly disgruntled with the way his neighborhood was turning out. Adam Young's gang of cretins were bad enough. He would send a severe letter to the local paper for this one. The local authorities needed to have better budgetary procedures than to allow non-useful expenditures like random phone booths that wouldn't be used.

When he turned around to glare at the offending object, he belatedly realized how odd it was that the men had returned inside of the box.

He also then realized how odd it was that the booth was no longer sitting on the street corner.

xxx  
(1) It was actually just Aziraphale possessing Madame Tracy while driving her bike with a very carsick Shadwell on the back.

**0000**

Getting in was the easy part. Martha had hidden with Sherlock and Anathema behind several barrels that sat near the hole in the fence while Newt stood out there smoking, waiting for an American soldier to come up to confront them. The alarm kept going, but the guard didn't seem that perturbed by it.

Newt, despite being nervous, went along with the plan they had come up with in just a few seconds time: he rambled about being part of the Witchfinder Army and held out his identification badge that his boss Shadwell had given him. The guard had been vaguely amused and distracted enough that Martha was able to get up behind him and knock him out.

"I could have done that far quicker," Sherlock muttered as they ran for the base.

"I've been itching for action," Martha shot back, not entirely lying. Just standing around while the world faced nuclear holocaust was doing terrible things to her nerves.

She really, really wished the Doctor would show up already.

Sherlock and Anathema had looked ill about something once they got inside the base, slipping in through a door in the hangar. The guards were all on the ground; Martha checked and they were merely asleep.

"What's wrong?" Martha asked, not trusting her human instincts that said nothing was overtly wrong. The supernatural members of their party had the priority when it came to sensing things going wrong at the moment.

"They've already been here. The Horsemen," Anathema said. She frowned as they crept down the hallway. "It's already begun."

Newt tripped a little. "What's begun?"

Anathema glanced at him with sad eyes. "The End."

"We should just be glad Adam is here to distract them," Sherlock murmured. "He arrived on the field just a few minutes ago. The Horsemen will go to him now."

"Move," Martha hissed, breaking into a run. Anathema directed them to where the strongest presence of the Horsemen had been. It was a back room filled with computers, as expected.

Martha stood in the middle of it all and tried to figure out what the next step was. The computers looked… normal. Sure, there was a loud humming noise, but that was to be expected in a room full of military computers, right? She couldn't see any visible sabotage. Maybe that was the point.

"The Horsemen were already here," Sherlock whispered. He looked around at the computers. He looked as he had back in London, when the Doctor told him he couldn't go back in time to help them. Rather helpless, really.

"We… we can still fix this," Martha insisted. She tried to force herself to be calm again, but it was becoming harder and harder in light of their situation. The clock was literally ticking away now. "They're computers. There has to be an off switch, or—or a counter measure!"

Anathema ran her hands down the screens. "I can't make heads or tails of this," she said, voice wavering.

Newt moved up and started to roll up his sleeves. "Maybe… maybe if we just looked around. It doesn't have to be useless yet," he said.

Abruptly, Martha was inspired. She reached over and grasped Newt's shoulder.

"You said you were a computer engineer," Martha exclaimed, heart pounding. "So, fix it!"

"Fine!" Newt stammered. He crouched to reach back into one of the cabinets and started to mess around with the wires inside. "Just give me… a second…! _Ouch_! Okay, okay, I can… look around for something to turn off!"

While Anathema complied with the request, Martha took a deep steadying breath and tried not to feel panicky as she looked around them. She had no idea if bombs had already been set off somewhere in the world—

It was then that she noticed Sherlock had tilted his head at the Newt. It was an intense stare, one that immediately told her something was wrong. The struggling man noticed the attention and flinched back when he looked over at Sherlock.

"What?" Newt asked, nervous under the demon's gaze.

A faint amused look crossed Sherlock's expression. "You're _lying_ ," he said, surprising Martha.

Newt turned an odd green-ish color.

**0000**

When the TARDIS landed at the gate of the airfield, they were a little late, the Doctor had announced. Lestrade took his word for it and stepped out hurriedly. He didn't know what he could do to help, but if he could at least get a bearing on what was happening, maybe something ingenious would come to him.

He was happy to see that the guard post was empty at the gate; the whole compound looked deserted save two non-military people standing around. Lestrade was less than pleased to see they were familiar faces.

"Oh, bloody hell, Shadwell's here," he exclaimed. Shadwell was standing next to the guard post, looking a little more than disheveled, and his secretary was there, too!

"Who?" the Doctor asked, emerging from the TARDIS and shutting the door.

Lestrade decided to avoid mentioning his relation to the human, just in case. "Another hunter. The one who burnt down the bookshop," he said, not quite lying.

Crowley snorted. "Aziraphale _may_ actually kill him," he said lightly. He then marched forward toward the humans. "Come on."

The two humans loitering at the gate didn't see the others approaching. " _Oh, it was an accident_ ," the psychic was saying once they got closer. Lestrade frowned; there was something off about her voice.

"Aziraphale," Crowley rasped. He squinted at Madame Tracey. "Nice dress."

"That's not—," Lestrade meant to say. Madame Tracey turned around and started to speak with the demon, however, which immediately told Lestrade maybe he was mistaken. It would not be the first time that day.

"There _you are, Crowley! I didn't mean to send him away_ ," Aziraphale-possessing-Madame-Tracey said. He pointed at the empty security guard post. " _I had only meant to demonstrate what you usually do and now he's gone!_ "

"Well, better him gone than here," Crowley offered diplomatically.

Aziraphale stared at him. " _Wait. How did you get here?_ "

"Time Lord," Crowley said, nodding his head back to the TARDIS and the Doctor, who waved cheerfully over at him.

"I'm the Doctor," the alien said.

" _Pleased to meet you, I'm Aziraphale. And_ you _!_ " Aziraphale exclaimed, looking at Lestrade. He winced. " _Oh, dear. That's a hunter, Crowley._ "

Crowley grunted. "We've met."

" _Oh_." Aizraphale seemed to accept that answer and immediately refocused his attention to more important things. " _Well, I suppose we should go stop this, right?_ "

"Have you seen the Anti-Christ?" the Doctor asked.

" _Well, actually, they just passed by not too long ago—_ "

Crowley made a sharp sound that earned everyone's attentions. Lestrade reluctantly looked over at the direction the demon was pointing. Out on the airfield, he saw a group of children standing in the middle of the field with bikes strewn out behind them.

There were four figures approaching the children. Lestrade didn't have words to describe what they were; they weren't human. Looking at them from that distance... it was like the four figures were there but they weren't. The red one burned dangerously with glistening sweat on her skin, while the pale creature oozed without leaving a trace. The frail creature behind him wavered like he was part of an old television set with an off-antenna. The fourth was… a dark, unmentionable presence.

The blond human boy stepped up to face those creatures with squared shoulders.

" _That's him_ ," Aziraphale said, sighing. " _Adam Young_."

"He's just a kid," Lestrade said, horrified. Those things approaching him—they weren't human. They were the most inhuman things he had ever _seen_. He didn't need a translation to know what they were—War, Famine, Pestilence and Death.

Everyone ignored the stunned hunter. "Well, that's why he's the Anti-Christ," Crowley muttered. He looked over at Aziraphale. "Should we?"

" _Kill him?_ " Aziraphale asked. He shook his head. " _Oh, dear, I don't…_ "

Adam Young seemed to be speaking with the Horsemen. Lestrade couldn't hear anything, but he could see a grin appear on the red one's—it had to be War—face as she moved forward toward the children. Lestrade's heart jumped when he saw one of the children, who had to be ordinary humans, move up to face her with what looked like a stick.

That was enough for Officer Lestrade.

"Oi, we have to help them!" he shouted, reaching for his gun.

"Who?" Crowley asked, frowning at him.

Lestrade sputtered. "The kids!" Who else was going to take those monsters down? !

"They'll be fine," the Doctor said, surprising him. The alien crossed his arms and smiled. "Better than we could handle it, I'll bet."

The curious and somewhat mollified faces of the non-humans among them made Lestrade pause, despite his best instincts telling him not to trust their opinions. "How're you so sure?" he asked, heart racing. This wasn't right, to just stand by.

Crowley nodded is head at the action. "Just watch," he said, looking vaguely impressed.

It was all Lestrade could do, stand there and watch. The redhead child—a little girl now that Lestrade had moved up a little to see—was holding up a stick that made a pathetic sword. War held up her own blade, which was a flaming sword that in no way could be beaten by something as pathetic as a toy sword made by a child.

But the moment the little girl reached out with her own sword to meet War's, something unexpected happened. War jerked and then vanished straight into the flaming sword, which dropped with a clatter onto the tarmac. Lestrade's jaw dropped.

Next, the tallest fair-headed boy brought out an odd bundle of sticks and string. He held it out and struck the staticy, frail Horseman—Famine—and Famine also vanished, leaving behind only a set of silver scales on the ground. At this point, Pollution tried to run.

The smallest child, a boy who looked like he had rolled around in the dirt judging by the patches all over him, turned to face that one. He had in his hands what looked like a circle of grass. He hurled it at the fleeing creature and, despite the fact it was clearly made out of lightweight material, hurtled through the air like a properly thrown discus. It collided with Pollution, and in a blink, there was nothing but a crown rolling around on the ground.

Adam stood in front of Death for a long moment before Death too left, without a single sign of confrontation.

The airfield fell still after that.

"Wow," Lestrade said in a minute after finding his voice, swaying a bit.

"Yeah," Crowley agreed, sounding faint. "Wow."

The Doctor reacted first and started to walk over to the group of children. Lestrade followed stiffly, trying to remind himself that the monsters were gone for the time being (well, the bad-monsters; he was still trying to ignore the fact he had willingly teamed up with a demon and an alien to get there). Everyone else seemed edgy, looking around nervously for any other creatures to appear, but despite the fact that the sky still looked bruised, there weren't any other apocalyptic events.

Only a few meters from the Anti-Christ and his three friends, the group of adults slowed. Lestrade stopped in front of an army jeep and resisted the urge to lean against it. He felt exhausted, and honestly, he hadn't done much. It was sort of unfair.

The four children finally noticed the approaching adults. Only Adam was unperturbed by the strangers. In fact, he seemed a little amused when his eyes fell on Crowley and Aziraphale.

"You're supposed t'be two people, aren't you?" the blond haired child asked, making a face at Aziraphale/Madame Tracey.

" _Well_ ," Aziraphale started to say, but his voice vanished from Madame Tracey and reappeared in the body of the same pudgy blond man Lestrade had seen in the bookstore. The angel looked down at his new body, which literally materialized out of thin air beside the psychic and seemed surprised. "Oh."

It was official, Lestrade thought: _**he had seen everything.**_

The Doctor seemed irrationally pleased and nodded his head. "I think the worst is over," he said, smiling at Lestrade.

" _Is_ it over?" Aziraphale asked quietly, glancing around the airfield. Lestrade saw people moving over at the hangar, but they looked like regular humans.

Looking just like an eleven-year-old, Adam scratched the side of his nose and shifted in his sneakers. "I… think so," he said.

This was all too much. Lestrade wanted answers. He wanted to know what the hell was going on and how he had gotten involved in it at all.

"…why are there _kids_ here?" Lestrade asked instead, voice cracking as he gazed around the airfield.

"Does it matter?" Crowley asked, voicing the sentiment for everyone else.

At that point in time, the sky decided to open up and send a fireball down to greet them.

**0000**

Humans never failed to astound him in ways he would never have expected.

Newt Pulsifer had floundered under the questioning of his actual computer skills. As it turned out, he wasn't a computer engineer; he was barely good with computers. He just wanted to be. Sherlock would have dismissed this as completely irrelevant and useless to their situation, but the realization dawning on him must have hit Anathema at the same time, because she didn't chide Newt either.

"You're bad with computers?" Martha asked, looking stunned. She hadn't seen it yet.

"Yes!" Newt said, his face red. "Yes, I'm bad with them, all right?"

Sherlock was grinning now. Anathema moved up closer and touched Newt's shoulder. "Oh, Newt," she said. "It is definitely all right."

"Wh-why's that?" Newt asked, confused.

"Prediction 1002," Anathema said. She brought out a lump of the cards she had brought with her in her satchel and held up one. " _'He is Not that Which He Says he Is.'_ "

Newt rubbed the back of his head, biting his lip. "I was just exaggerating about being good with computers," he said, sounding sheepish. He then paused. "Why'd you think she predicted that, though?"

Anathema looked like she was gathering herself up for a confrontation. The determination in her eyes did not soften when she marched over to Newt, grabbed his hand and held it over one of the computers.

" _Fix_ it, Newt," Anathema told him firmly, eyes shining. "Make it better."

"I'm not sure I can," he said before letting his hand rest on top of the machine.

A harsh whine rose up form the machine. Sherlock watched various lights flicker and some blinked out. The hum that had been rising in the background that whole time they had been in the office reached a crescendo and then stopped abruptly, the whole process cut off.

They all held their breath for a moment.

"Gosh," Newt said in quite the understatement.

Sherlock decided to take this all as very good news.

"Let's go, Adam is outside," he said, whirling around. He spared Martha a glance; the time traveler was smiling, clearly having regained her positivity.

"How did you know he was lying?" Anathema asked, glancing over at him as they left the room.

"If there is anything I have learned to see in the last six thousand or so years," Sherlock said, smiling mirthlessly, "it's how to spot the liars."

**0000**

Outside, they had gone from momentarily confused about disappearing Horsemen to underprepared for ethereal contact. The Doctor was fascinated, though he wished had had the opportunity to greet Adam properly before the rest of the show got started.

In a burst of light, a figure appeared on the tarmac. The Doctor squinted and saw it was a man-like creature that looked like he was on fire. It was clearly one of the angels, considering it glowed a bright gold and Aziraphale made a quiet noise that could have been a whimper.

"That's the Metatron," the angel whispered.

"Who?" Lestrade asked, sounding strangled.

"The Voice of God," Aziraphale answered. The Doctor nodded and hummed thoughtfully about that.

The Metatron moved toward them at a slow pace. Before the Doctor could think about greeting the ethereal being, he saw someone running up to their side. Sherlock, with Martha, Anathema and a lanky man he'd later know was Newt Pulsifer in tow, was eyeing the Metatron with a wild expression, but circled around to get to the group of humans and their allies.

"Bloody hell, why is there _another_ kid here?" Lestrade exclaimed, thoroughly distracting the others.

"Ignore him," Crowley muttered.

"Oh, yes, _ignore_ me. That's nothing new," the dark haired child snapped. He turned his icy eyes up to the Time Lord. "Doctor, we have a problem. We managed to turn off the computers, but—"

"Oh, we've noticed," the Doctor replied, as he watched the Metatron figure approach.

Before it could get closer, Sherlock made an inhuman sound and launched up onto a nearby jeep, eyes going pitch black. The Doctor figured it was a demon thing, since Crowley also sank down low into the side of the army vehicle. Turning around, the Doctor looked at the patch of ground Metatron was also looking at. Up from the concrete bubbled another flaming figure, but this one was blood red. It loomed up from the earth and turned its fearsome gaze toward the crowd of people, but eventually turned to look directly at Adam.

"What is that?" Lestrade whispered in horror.

" _Beelzebub_ ," Sherlock hissed, as tense as a wild animal would be in the presence of a hunter. Crowley made an audible gulping sound.

When Beelzebub went to speak, even the Doctor couldn't understand the literal buzzing sound that came forth from him. Adam seemed to be able to hear him just fine.

"I already told them, I'm Adam," the little Anti-Christ said.

"Now then, Adam Young," Metatron interrupted, his golden face severe. "While we appreciate your assistance, you must understand that Armageddon must happen _now_."

"Why the rush?" the Doctor asked, frowning thoughtfully. Everyone rudely ignored him.

"It muzzt be decided now, boy," Beelzebub added. Ha, Lord of the Flies. The Doctor got it. "It izz thy deztiny. It is written."

Adam made a face. "Just because it's written somewhere doesn't mean it _has_ to happen," he said. "If it's about people, it can always be crossed out."

The Doctor grinned. What a smart boy.

"He's right," the Doctor said. "What's the point in having made people _people_ if you're going to punish them for being what they are…people!"

"Yeah," Adam added. "If you stop tellin' people it'll be sorted out when they're dead, maybe they'll start sortin' it out while they're alive. I thought about changing things too, but I don't want to do that anymore." He looked over at his little human friends and even spared a glance for Sherlock, who had frozen. "Havin' to take care of everybody's problems would be like tidyin' up their bedrooms for them, and that'll get annoying."

"You don't even tidy up your own bedroom," the redhead girl said.

"I never said anything about _my_ bedroom," Adam said, impatient. "It's just an ana-loggy. Anyway… it's bad enough I have to come up with things for my friends to do. I don't want to do it for everybody else, so no thank you."

Beelzebub and the Metatron exchanged a look. The Doctor looked over and saw Crowley and Aziraphale giving each other frantic, slightly-hopeful looks at the direction the conversation was headed. Even young Sherlock was stilled, staring at Adam with just a hint of awe.

"You cannot refuse this," the Metatron said.

"Yezz," Beelzebub said, a little panicky. "You cannot rebel againzzt thizz. You muzzzt understand!"

"I'm not rebelling, I'm just pointing things out," Adam said, quite rational. "Maybe, maybe people would do okay, do better, without you getting involved and fighting. I'm not saying they will for sure, but maybe they will."

"This makes no sense," the Metatron said, insistently. "You cannot run counter to the Great Plan. It is in your genes. _Think_."

A look of hesitation crossed Adam's face. He suddenly looked his age, despite the darkness in his eyes.

He was getting tired, the poor kid. The Doctor exhaled heavily. Adam looked ready to give in.

"We had a chance," Crowley whispered in the background, sounding pained. "I thought, maybe, he had them on the fence—"

"This Great Plan," someone said suddenly, "it is the _ineffable_ plan, is it not?"

"Sherlock?" the Doctor asked, surprised. The little demon stood firmly, glaring up at the Voice of God and Beelzebub.

"The Great Plan," the Metatron told him coolly. "You of all creatures should know it. The world shall last for six thousand years and then—"

"Yes, that's the Great Plan, but is it truly part of the ineffable plan your kin have espoused for this long?" Sherlock asked, his face guarded. "I just wanted to be clear that is the same thing."

"It doesn't matter!" the Metatron said, irritable. "It's the same thing, surely!"

" _Surely_?" Martha repeated, honing in on the word, clever as always. She looked over at Aziraphale and Crowley quickly before looking back at the two creatures before them. "You're not sure, then?"

"It doesn't—!" the Metatron started to say.

"You're not one-hundred percent sure?" Aziraphale asked, jumping in. The Voice of God sent him a disparaging look.

Crowley stood up, too. "That perhaps the Great Plan isn't part of the ineffable Plan, after all?" he said, speaking quickly. He was smiling. "It's only a small part of it, after all, if it is. You can't be sure what's happening now is right, from an ineffable point of view."

Beelzebub rippled dangerously. "It izz written!"

"Perhaps this isn't just a test of the world," the Doctor said, catching their attentions. He smirked at the Metatron specifically. "Maybe it's a test of you and your kind. Ever think of that?"

"God does not play games with his loyal servants," the Metatron said, glaring.

Crowley chuckled lowly. "Where have you _been_?" His serpentine eyes shone brightly.

A tense silence fell. The Doctor crossed his arms and waited. Adam stood firmly and smiled at the Metatron and Beelzebub, having found his own sensibilities. The air cleared a little, as if the storm was finally dissipating up above them.

"I think I shall need to seek further instruction," the Metratron said abruptly.

"I alzzo," Beelzebub said. He glared over at Adam. "I do not want to know what _thy father_ will say."

They both vanished in a burst of light. Shadwell had raised his gun at the two figures, but other than that, the humans had frozen up, staring at the empty space where the Metatron and Beelzebub had been standing.

The non-humans reacted far more quickly.

"You know what happened?" Crowley asked excitedly, grabbing the angel's arm. "He was raised human. This whole time… he was just raised human!"

"And it has made the difference, hasn't it?" Aziraphale murmured, looking a bit worn out.

Sherlock peered around wildly. "It's over, then?" he asked.

"Yes," Crowley said. He frowned. "I guess we're alive?"

The angel next to him beamed. "Just imagine how terrible it might have been if we'd been at all competent!"

Sherlock buried his head into his hands. The Doctor merely grinned. This had turned out all right after all. Martha smiled at him and nudged him in the side. The Apocalypse had been averted. It had been a good day, all in all.

Despite looking worn down, Adam seemed to be in higher spirits as well. He turned to smile at his little group of friends and noticed the others hanging around.

" _There_ you are, Sherlock," Adam said, frowning. "Where were you?"

"Inside, stopping a nuclear holocaust," Sherlock replied simply. He motioned beside him at the alien. "Allow me to introduce you to the Doctor."

"Doctor who?" the light haired, serious-looking boy next to the little red headed girl asked.

The Doctor moved up and waved at the humans cheerfully. "Hello, boys and miss!" He crouched in front of Adam. "I don't believe we've met, have we?"

"This is Adam Young, the Anti-Christ," Sherlock said, though he knew the Doctor knew that already. He pointed at the other humans with less interest. "And associates."

Adam nodded. "Yeah. That's Pepper, Wensleydale and Brian." He squinted up at the Doctor. "Who're you?"

"I'm the Doctor," he replied. "I've just been along for the ride mostly, but good show, Adam. Very good show."

"You think?" Adam asked, eyes wider in the surprise a child had at unexpected praise.

It made the Doctor smile kindly. "Yes," he said. He held up his hand in an open high-five. "You did really, really good."

Adam looked at him with those soulful eyes and seemed to be wondering if the Doctor was being truthful. Eventually, Adam smiled and returned the high-five with a powerful slap. The Doctor chuckled and stood up.

Behind him, Lestrade had moved up. He appeared skittish, but the human also looked ready to get as far from the airfield as he could. The Doctor was happy to see that the young man was still looking out for those he thought needed help. He'd make a good cop, that one.

"All right, time to get you kids home," Lestrade said, sounding utterly spent. He held up a badge and nodded at the four kids and Sherlock. "I'm Officer Greg Lestrade. Where're all you kids from?"

Sherlock made a face. "You're a hunter," he said. Adam and his friends sent him a curious look.

Lestrade hesitated. "I'm a _cop_."

"Barely," Sherlock said, sneering. "You've only signed onto the force yesterday."

"How—how did you know _that_?" Lestrade sputtered.

"Your badge is temporary, and besides that, it's hardly worn," Sherlock said, pointing at the badge. "Your unwillingness to assign yourself to the category of a hunter and your insistence on being referred to as a police officer demonstrate a vigor usually corresponding with new attachment and recently made conviction." He shrugged. "Besides, you're young. You couldn't possibly have been in the police for very long."

Lestrade looked just as stunned as he had when the Metatron had shown up. "Who're you?" the officer asked.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock offered. He abruptly grinned, all too childlike despite a flash of black eyes. The Doctor laughed. "I'm a demon."

"What the fuck?" Lestrade asked, horrified, taking a step back.

Sherlock laughed, though it wasn't entirely based in humor. His eyes changed back to normal. "Careful, I'm only eleven. Mummy would not approve of that sort of language." Next to him, Adam was grinning.

Lestrade turned around, red in the face. "This entire town's gone mad—!" he started to say, ignoring the Doctor's smile.

Beneath them all, the ground rumbled. Everyone froze. Adam turned slowly, his eyes blankly staring out at the center of the airfield. The Doctor felt the Earth heave upwards and the skies again grew black.

Suddenly, it was not quite over.

**0000**

All at once, Crowley realized the End would not go quietly into the night. He had known it was too soon to be celebrating surviving the apocalypse. There was always a catch, especially to averting total annihilation of the earth. The ineffable Plan was bloody miserable like that.

He stood on uneven feet as the ground quaked beneath the airfield. He looked over at Aziraphale quickly and they both knew what was coming.

"It's Him," Aziraphale said, face gaunt.

The Devil was breaking from the Cage.

At first, Crowley thought that was against the rules. The Cage was the Cage; it was impossible to open and unbreakable. Only at the advent of the apocalypse would the Cage be permitted to open and Lucifer be free to walk the Earth. Briefly, he realized that maybe the cosmos didn't need an Anti-Christ to start it after all.

Maybe all of this had been in vain.

The air was filled with the stench of sulfur and molten earth. Crowley took a step back and considered getting into the jeep to run. This was beyond anything they were capable of handling.

"Is it a volcano?" Lestrade asked loudly.

"Whatever it is, it's angry," Martha stammered, wobbling over to the Doctor, who at long last, looked mildly concerned.

Crowley decided to get into the jeep to leave. The only thing that stopped him was the sight of Aziraphale walking toward Adam Young.

"What are you doing?" Crowley asked, startled.

Aziraphale sent him a sad look. "They're only human," he said, gesturing around them at the unfortunate assembly of people. "We should help them."

"And what, go against Him?" Crowley asked, horrified. "Are you crazy?"

"No," the angel replied. He bent down and picked up War's sword. "Think about it, dear. We've gotten them into enough trouble over the years as it is, you and me."

Aziraphale lifted the blade and the flames sprung up all over it once more. The angel smiled and held it up in the air, even as the ground's shaking grew worse.

"It's been years since I've handled this last," he said

"More like six thousand," Crowley muttered.

He looked at the bulging ground and could hear the rhythmic beat of his own heart matching up with the cracking of the ethereal bonds that held the Great Beast down below.

Crowley smiled bitterly.

"Why not?" he asked, pushing his sunglasses up further.

He reached into the jeep to pick up a crowbar. It would do.

"You coming, Zephyr?" Crowley asked, glancing over his shoulder at Sherlock as they moved to confront the devil.

"I do not see a reason why not, as you said," the little demon said. He smiled mirthlessly and a burst of air erupted around him, like a cocoon. "This was my home, too."

Lestrade and Shadwell both had their guns out, pointing at the epicenter, where hot red light had begun to leak through. The Doctor and Martha glanced at each other and nodded resolutely. Newt and Anathema also shared a look before marching forward, weaponless but ready all the same.

Crowley glanced over at Aziraphale, who smiled back.

"If we don't get out of this, I'd just like to let you know that deep down, I've always thought there was a spark of goodness in you," the angel said, offering a hand.

The demon offered him back a weak grin and a firm handshake. "Nice knowing you. And Aziraphale? Know that you were just enough of a bastard to be worth liking."

Just like that, they turned back to face the Devil. On their backs, their wings unfurled, since going out in style should have meant going out in their true forms (or as close as they could get without vaporizing the mortals). The ground shrieked and rolled as the Cage began to cave in. It was only a matter of time.

In hindsight, no one thought to look back at Adam, whom the Devil was coming for. No one thought to consider the son who had disappointed his father by refusing destiny. It was always the little things, like a child, that ended up being missed at first.

But Adam was on his own ground. Always, and ultimately, on his own ground. (1)

Crowley stopped dead in his tracks when the whole world shifted. The rumbling stopped and the ground seemed to level out as if plowed down by an invisible wave. Crowley blinked.

In the next moment, there was no bulge in the earth and no Lucifer crawling out of the ground. A car had driven up and out of it stepped an oddly familiar human Crowley had met eleven years ago in a hospital maternity ward.

"Adam!" Mr. Young shouted, calling for his son, because frankly, that's what it was really about, wasn't it? "Where are you? I've been looking all over the place for you!"

Crowley was awed.

A series of things happened. Adam and the Them took off for their bikes, running not from the epitome of all evil, but just a regular parent. Mr. Young huffed and got back into his car. Both the angel and fallen angel present were forced to fold their wings out of sight. Aziraphale tried to hide the flaming sword and the hunters none-too-discreetly did the same with their guns. Mr. Young spared them the quickest of looks, but got back into his car to drive back out of the airfield, presumably to get home before his soon-to-be grounded son did.

As the small car drove off the tarmac and silence fell over the airfield, the remaining occupants left standing were at first uncertain.

"That was him, wasn't it?" Sherlock asked, breaking the silence. He looked around them slowly, eyes wide. "Adam did this."

Adam had changed out one father for another, because the only father an eleven year old would know would be the one to raise him.

The Doctor barked out a loud laugh and looked as if they had just won a great game. Crowley choked on his own laugh and dropped the tire iron on the ground with a loud clang.

What a fucking day.

"Oops, I'll be right back," the Doctor said suddenly. He turned and jogged over to the TARDIS. Crowley frankly did not care what the alien had just thought of; he was more concerned with celebrating survival by standing there and breathing.

Breathing was suddenly really, really nice.

There was an odd moment where no one really knew what to do. Shadwell was still unsure about the now-flat tarmac and was prodding it with his shotgun. Madame Tracey stood back to let Martha and Anathema investigate it, but the threat was gone. Crowley glanced to the side and saw Aziraphale, having put the sword down again, heading over to one of the other remaining humans: Lestrade.

The police officer/hunter had done no more real help than the other humans had, really, but Crowley thought the bloke was an all right fellow to go have drinks with. For a hunter, he didn't seem to quite grasp the idea of that's-a-demon-go-kill-it, though Crowley was not complaining.

Aziraphale, however, seemed to disagree and walked up in front of the slightly taller human, who immediately froze up in the angel's presence.

"What're you doing?" Lestrade asked, eyes wider with concern.

Aziraphale smiled, undaunted. "You're a hunter, aren't you?" he asked. He looked over at Shadwell and shrugged. "Your uncle, too, but he's rather harmless, in a violent sort of way, isn't he? I just mean, he won't actually be a threat to anyone later for this."

Lestrade squinted his eyes, as if that would help him to see the creature in front of him. "What are you, anyway?" he asked.

"I thought the wings would have been the biggest clue," Aziraphale said, amused. His wings were hidden again, but there had been no mistaking what the others had seen when Aziraphale and Crowley had walked out there.

"You're really an angel?" Lestrade asked, voice faint.

"Yes."

"There's no such thing," the hunter said. Crowley almost felt bad for the poor bloke.

"Exactly," Aziraphale said kindly, touching the human's forehead deliberately.

Newt yelped when Lestrade pitched backwards and he barely caught the police officer. Crowley frowned a little; wiping memories was a bit big of a miracle for Aziraphale to be risking at a time when Heaven wasn't pleased with their Earth operative, but it was necessary, he supposed.

Especially if the Earth was actually going to be sticking around and the local demons (including himself) intended to stay as well. The thought made Crowley smile a bit.

"Was that necessary?" Sherlock asked, sounding more curious than anything else, as he peered at the human.

"He knows a bit too much for a sane hunter," Aziraphale said, glancing over at the demon with a schooled look. "As much as I know you like to be a solitary creature, Zephyr, it would be best not to let the local hunters know a demon is possessing the alias of a child, hmm?"

The other demon shrugged. Crowley knew Sherlock had already counted that as a possibility. The spirit was ridiculously intelligent. It was for everyone's benefit that Lestrade forgot this whole thing happened. (2)

Newt looked a little nervous under the shadow of the nonhumans, but before he could say anything, Anathema, Martha and Shadwell came up.

"Poor guy's fainted," Crowley offered dully when the humans noticed Lestrade on the ground.

Shadwell snorted and raised a fuss about his "Southern pansy" nephew and that "real Witchfinders" would never faint after a successful mission. Anathema sent both Aziraphale and Crowley a cool glare, but said nothing.

"We'll take them back to town," Newt said quietly, meaning Shadwell, Madame Tracey and Lestrade, who was being hefted up by Shadwell and Martha. He frowned. "You think they'd mind us stealing their car?"

"After everything else that's happened? Nah," Crowley said, shrugging. "Just don't drive all the way home with it."

"Right." Newt flinched when Aziraphale turned around to face him. "Um. You aren't going to be removing my memories, are you?"

The angel blinked, confused. "Why would I do that? You aren't a hunter, are you?"

"Nope!" Newt smiled in a completely unconvincing manner. "Not at all!"

"He is with me, after all," Anathema said, coming to his aid. She discreetly took his hand in hers and pointed at herself with her other hand. "Witch."

After hauling Lestrade into the back of the jeep, Martha hopped down and nodded. "That is true," she said with a smile.

Anathema took one more look around their odd group and nodded. "We'll be going," she said, moving as if to lead Newt back to the jeep.

"Ms. Device!" the Doctor shouted, surprising them. He emerged from the TARDIS with a particular item in hand. He jogged over to hand a stunned Anathema Agnes Nutter's book. "I believe this belongs to you."

The witch looked up at him with round eyes. "Thank you," she said.

Aziraphale nodded. "Take care now," he said, waving slightly as Anathema, Newt and Shadwell climbed up into the jeep with Lestrade in it. Madame Tracey was already sitting in the front, looking quite pleased with how the day turned out, even though she probably didn't have a clue as to what did happen.

Crowley cracked his neck and sighed. He watched the jeep drive off the field and felt oddly… at peace.

"Boy, this was a lot of fun, wasn't it?" the Doctor said, grinning. He tucked his hands into his pockets. "I wonder where Grievous Bodily Harm and his pals went?"

" _What_?" Aziraphale and Crowley both asked, startled.

"Don't worry about it," Martha told them, laughing. The angel and demon exchanged a look, but said nothing.

"We gotta be moving out," the Doctor said. "It was good meeting you all. Tell Lestrade that—oh, well, never mind, I guess."

Sherlock was smiling, which was an odd sight, even though it was more like a smirk. "Goodbye, Doctor," he said to the alien.

The Doctor crouched and grinned. "I'll be seeing you, eh, Sherlock?"

"I will always be here," Sherlock replied. He suddenly held his hands up and Crowley winced when he saw War's sword in his hands. When had he—? ! "You should take this."

"That's not mine," the Doctor said immediately, though he did look curious.

"For safe keeping," Sherlock said. He looked back at Aziraphale deliberately, before the angel could argue. It wasn't really Aziraphale's blade anymore, and without War, it didn't have an owner.

The Doctor hesitated. "You think?" he asked quietly, his brow furrowed.

Sherlock smiled mirthlessly. "I like to have an ace in the hole when needed," he said.

"Aziraphale?" the Doctor asked, looking up at the angel.

"I can hardly lay claim to it now," Aziraphale said slowly, frowning. "It hasn't been mine for, well, ages."

"Thousands of years," Crowley supplied.

The angel seemed conflicted, though Crowley vaguely saw the point in Sherlock's argument. They had no telling what sort of trouble Heaven and Hell might throw at them in the future. War's sword could only be used in the hands of someone it was meant for—specifically Aziraphale now—but maybe it didn't hurt to have a weapon safely tucked away where their enemies could not reach it easily. Just in case.

Crowley grimaced; apparently, his bosses were his enemies now. That wasn't a new thing, though, he had to admit.

"Well," the Doctor said carefully. He took the blade and it didn't react; interesting. "I'll keep a hold of it. If you change your mind."

Sherlock watched as the alien stood up. "Where will you go next?" he asked.

"Who knows?" the Doctor said, his humor returning. "It'll be great, that's all I know. Good luck, everyone!"

"Stay safe," Martha added, waving as she and the Doctor headed back to the TARDIS.

The remaining three figures watched (Aziraphale was the only one who waved back) as the two time travelers got back into the TARDIS. There was a low sound as the ship started its take-off sequence. The blue phone booth eventually faded from sight and that was it.

Aziraphale looked over at his associate. "I suppose we should get going, too," he said. The humans were already stirring all over the base.

Crowley nodded in agreement and then glanced back at the other demon in front of him. "You coming along, Zephyr?" he asked.

The dark haired demon shook his head. "No…" Sherlock said. He tucked his hands into his pockets and became a gaunt little statue. "I have a ride coming, I'm sure."

"Thanks," Aziraphale said, smiling kindly. "For the help."

"It's my planet too, you know," Sherlock replied dryly. "You're not the only ones who have been here since the beginning."

Both angel and demon shared a look. "True," Crowley said. "See you around, I guess."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Hmm."

They left him on the tarmac and went over to commandeer one of the other military jeeps. Crowley climbed up into the driver's seat and dearly wished he had brought the Bentley with him, but he was glad that it had escaped the apocalypse without any damage. Aziraphale got into the passenger side and sighed heavily, falling back into the seat.

Aziraphale glanced at the demon. "Shall we go get a drink, then?" (3)

"Oh, angel," Crowley said as he put the jeep into gear, "I thought you'd never ask."

xxx  
(1) _Good Omens_ , page 343. Because little boys never listen to their fathers, and good for it.  
(2) Lestrade only remembered a vague sense of something going terribly wrong while going out to investigate a bookstore, but he promptly blamed Shadwell, who's story about winged Southern Pansies earned him a sigh and lecture about setting buildings on fire and getting Lestrade injured.  
(3) And then, they got shitfaced drunk.

**0000**

It was nearly seven o'clock by the time Mycroft got to the airfield. He had gotten a call from his supervisor that someone at the American military base was calling for him. The news that the base had been attacked by terrorists had been all over the office, but Mycroft had never expected to have his name involved in it.

At least until he took the call and realized that his name was involved. His little brother had been picked up by the Americans and he had told them to call Mycroft Holmes, his brother, who "worked for the government."

Oh, he was going to kill that demonic brat. He didn't know how, but after three years, Mycroft finally decided he was going to learn how to do it.

After handing in his report that contained no actually information about how five tons of uranium had abruptly vanished into thin air and then reappeared back in its proper place, Mycroft commandeered a driver and headed to the Tadfield air base. It was in shambles, and for a moment, Mycroft unwillingly considered the possibility that his brother had caused the damage to the front gates.

But that thought thankfully vanished when he saw his eleven-year-old (though not really) brother standing next to an American soldier. Sherlock merely looked grumpy, not particularly guilty or, well, demonic. For whatever reason, that made Mycroft instantly angry.

Mycroft wordlessly let his driver handle the Americans. He had a bone to pick with the imp now alone on the tarmac in front of him.

"Where have you _been_ , Sherlock?" he demanded. He marched over to the sullen child, who had the nerve to be sulking. "Why are you here? _How_ did you get here? !"

"I walked here," Sherlock said, almost as a mutter. His clothes were filthy.

Mycroft stopped in front of him and placed his hands on his hips. "Whatever for? !"

Sherlock dug his hands into his pockets. "I…" he started, stopping with a look that seemed genuinely boyish.

Breathing out sharply, Mycroft refused to fall for it.

"I was just lost," Sherlock finally said, more bitter than contrite.

Mycroft shook his head. " _Get_ in the car. Mummy is furious," he said; he was too.

He none-too-gently pushed Sherlock toward the open car door and the boy slid in. Mycroft marched around to the other side.

"You could have done irreparable damage to the British government's relationship with the American military," he said, slamming his door shut before the driver could shut it for him. All at once, the rational sense he usually had left him and he just wanted to yell at his brother—who wasn't even his brother, but that was beside the point. "Did you _see_ the damage to the front of the gate? Did you witness the terrorist attack? I had to make several calls to be able to pick you up without international incident. If this gets back to Father, he will be furious—"

The silence during his tirade was unusual, since Sherlock normally took pleasure in snapping back at his brother, especially when being lectured. Mycroft turned and looked at his little brother. Sherlock was sunken into the leather seat and seemed…distant.

Mycroft paused, finally noticing the dark circles under Sherlock's eyes and torn jacket.

"…Sherlock?" he asked, anger ebbing slightly.

Sherlock closed his eyes—his human ones—and seemed to draw in on himself.

"I want to go home, please, brother," Sherlock said, quietly. "I'm…"

Mycroft waited and the little boy next to him seemed to collect himself. Mycroft was used to Sherlock being too adult-like and in control of nearly every aspect of his life. That's what made him so unnerving, even before Mycroft had discovered he wasn't human. Mycroft could not remember a time that Sherlock ever looked like a little boy.

"I'm tired," Sherlock whispered, looking every bit like a rundown eleven-year-old.

Mycroft, despite himself, believed it.

"…Drive," he said, speaking to the driver who obeyed. The car lurched forward and Mycroft sat back with a sour expression.

Sherlock would be the death of him, he was certain.

**0000**

**St. James' Park, London  
Sunday**

Sometimes, things did just wind up going right, even for unlucky fellows like Crowley and Aziraphale.

Aziraphale's bookshop came back. The content was a little different, but Adam was only eleven. At least the children's books were all in mint condition and thus were worth quite a bit. Crowley returned to his flat and found it approximately the same as it had been. Even his plants remained the same. In a magnanimous gesture, he did not threaten them for a whole week.

After that, things were supposed to go back to normal. To the credit of the universe and its habit of being unfair, things sort of did, for at least a little while.

The day after the end of the end of the world, Aziraphale and Crowley met back at the park to feed the ducks. It was quiet, save the usual ensemble of shady characters meeting each other for exchanges of intel and products along the pond, but the angel and the demon standing on the edge of the water paid them little attention.

Crowley threw a piece of bread at a duck and didn't try to sink it when the bird caught the food.

"I wonder what they will do next," Aziraphale murmured, brushing crumbs from his hands once the bread was all gone.

"You think more's coming?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale laughed, a little derisively. "I don't know if you remember Raphael (1), but there will always been another move," he said. His expression was wistful. "I just hope they give us all a little time to recuperate."

Crowley hummed in agreement and tried not to imagine what a Plan B would look like. The Anti-Christ was out, at the very least. He could not fathom how they'd make another one, so perhaps the next plan would be easier to interfere with. Or worse. He had no idea.

It would not last, the peace they had around for now. Crowley gazed up at the blue sky and wondered when the next shoe would drop. Probably right on his head.

Heaven was bitter and would not forget this. Hell would never forgive, but it might just forget if Crowley managed to do something particularly awful to gain favor. He didn't really want to think about it right then.

They still had a few more days of peace and quiet, he figured. He'd make the best of it while he could.

"Oi, angel," he said, turning to face his companion.

Aziraphale glanced back at him. "Yes, dear?"

Six thousand years was not an eternity, but that was rather irrelevant. Whatever came next, be it another six thousand years or somewhere before or after that, Crowley would be willing to fight for that piece of time.

The only blessing was that he did not have to worry about it alone.

"Thanksss," he said, giving a crooked smile.

The angel beamed. "It's my pleasure, dear," he said, linking arms with the demon.

"Lunch?" (2)

"Of course."

xxx  
(1) Crowley did in fact remember Raphael, that pompous shit.  
(2) They split the bill.

**0000**

**North of Glastonbury, Somerset  
One Day (Incredibly Late) After the End of the World.**

The skies turned black. The seas had boiled. A great storm had risen to the east at the center of the country. Great danger came on swift wings and he knew that those were the signs he had been waiting for.

It was also _all wrong_.

He had seen it in the papers and fled the village he had stopped at. As a rule, he avoided contact with larger venues of information sources, but perhaps he should have that time. Nothing had felt wrong, not really, but that day, he had woken to chaos. Not just among men—because there was panic and confusion there, mostly over far-away events and a storm toward the center of England—but also in nature.

He could feel the ley lines twist, even at that great distance. Something great and powerful was happening west of London, in Oxfordshire, but the wizard did not go there. That was where the danger was, but before he could tend to it, he had one greater task.

But it was far too early. He saw the signs and knew it was time, but it was also too early.

He didn't understand it.

"Can't be late. Can't be," the old man said, stumbling slightly on the roadside. He kicked dead leaves off his boot and kept moving, as fast as he could. "It's far too early, isn't it?"

When night had fallen and dawn rose, the air had changed again. It felt lighter and the storms seemed to have receded. But the magic in the region had shifted. Something had changed and it wasn't supposed to.

Going off the road, he stumbled through the forests. He had to get to the lake and then…

He stopped at the crest of a hill and looked over his shoulder the way he had come. He tried to catch his breath.

"No, no, no, too early!" he stammered. It had to be. He—he couldn't have _missed_ it.

This was what he had been waiting for, this moment. For the last thousand years, he had waited and prepared. He had not known what the exactly moment or event would be, but he knew it wasn't supposed to be that era that needed their king.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

"Maybe not," he whispered, teetering on the ledge as he scrambled on the hilltop, the staff only barely keeping him steady. "Maybe…not. Can't be late, though. Can't be."

He had watched the signs. This was not the time, but yet… it had all come up so suddenly. So suddenly.

Gritting his teeth, he barreled the rest of the way down the hill. His body was old, but that would not stop him. He did not fall and rushed across the winding country road. He had traveled that path many times in the last millennia. He would never forget where his heart truly lied or where his destiny would ultimately take him.

When he finally did reach the correct side of the road, he realized that his haste had not been needed. Whatever was happening to the east was not what had been fated. It simply was not.

 _When_ had never been the question, not really. It was inevitable that it would and that was enough to know.

Reaching the fence, the great wizard Merlin caught his breath and his eyes found what they had been seeking.

The old man smiled tenderly at the distant island and he gripped his staff to keep himself upright.

"Hello, Arthur," he whispered.

The once and future king would return when the time was right.

**.  
**

**End _"The Apocalypse That Never Was."_**

**Author's Note:**

> Next, Crowley makes some business choices when that other shoe finally drops.
> 
>  **A/Ns** :  
> -I took many dialogue parts from the novel when I had to, without making it an overburdened repeat of the novel.  
> -Sherlock has already tinkered with the notion of solving crimes (the Carl Powers case) but will not be picking up that line of work professionally for another nineteen years or so. Refer to Building Down.  
> -I did mix up the timeline a bit for Good Omens, concerning the Bikers of the Apocalypse, the Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and the Doctor meeting. Their meeting happens a bit earlier here than it does in the book.  
> -In compliance with Good Omens and Supernatural lore, let's just imagine that the Cage where Lucifer was cast into had the potentiality of breaking open on Adam's apocalypse. And then it didn't. Whoops. Lucifer must have been so pissed, man.  
> -No, Crowley and Aziraphale do not lose their memories of the Apocalypse in this 'verse. That would not work for future events.  
> -Merlin, you may want to take a rain check on that resurrection, bro.  
> -This was a million pages too long holy shit


End file.
